


around the dinner table

by Humanities_Handbag



Series: mean grinch, blue grinch, nice grinch, new grinch [1]
Category: The Grinch (2018)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, PTSD, everyone is trying their best, the moral of the story is good leftovers can save the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-08-24 09:16:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16637144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanities_Handbag/pseuds/Humanities_Handbag
Summary: The Grinch had a month to steal Christmas. He had the tools. The sidekick. The brilliant plan. He could have pulled it off.Until a little girl found his phone number.(Or: the Grinch is invited to dinner before Christmas and it absolutely ruins everything.)





	1. In Which Cindy-Lou Finds a Number

**Author's Note:**

> It's a miracle this story even exists. 
> 
> Enjoy my garbage fire of a tale.
> 
> No betas, we misspell like men.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cindy-Lou finds a phone number and annoys a Grinch

The Grinch had been an entity in Cindy-Lou’s life ever since she’d been a baby.

It worked like a story. Sort of like a tale you told children so they crossed the road right. Things kids whispered to one another in the schoolyard to try and give someone else a scare.

Some cities had scary monsters under bridges or haunted forests.

Whoville had the Grinch.

He wasn’t… _awful_. He kept to himself, mostly. He came into town once a month and he knocked into people and mumbled insults and broke a thing or two and always paid for it later (sometimes in pennies, which was a pain).

It was more what they _didn’t_ see that became a mystery.

“I hear he captures lost dogs that families are looking for and keeps them as workers,” some kids said. “The dog that’s with him? That’s one of his slaves. I bet that dog sleeps under the stairs on bones. I bet he’s starving.”

“The walkway up towards his home is lined with skulls,” a teen had told her and her friends. “He sits on glass and nails like chairs and he never ever showers. That’s why he’s _green_!”

Once, Cindy-Lou had an older high schooler tell her, “if you walk up to the mountain and knock on his door, you’ll be cursed forever. I had a friend try it. And now they fail every test.”

Cindy-Lou didn’t believe them.

Really.

No. Really. She didn’t.

(She totally did)

But for the most part, he seemed harmless. Mean. Grumpy. But harmless. And so she stayed away and kept the stories of him tucked in her back pocket and whenever she saw him in a store she (and all of the other kids) stayed far out of his way.  

She never thought she’d actually meet him.

Cindy-Lou was absolutely content to go about her life never thinking about how she may meet the boogeyman of Mount Crumpet  

And then one day

.

.

.

she did.

* * *

**November 30th**

**(25 days before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

She meets him on the last day of November when he wanders down the mountain for (what the grocer will tell everyone) is his emergency restocking before the holiday.

She’d been watching the door for her mother, backing up, when she’d bumped hard into something sort of soft and warm and squishy that made a _hey_ noise and when she’d turned around to apologize-

(she paused)

(she didn’t breathe)

(her heart stopped)

“Watch it,” he’d snapped, picking up a bag he’d dropped when she’d bumped into him. She scuttled back, looking up (up, up, up) his too-tall form to his scowl. She thought of stories of cursed doors and long walks up bone clad hills. To his side there’s a dog. She remembered thinking that it was strange that the dog didn’t seem sad. Or abused or beaten. He sat patiently by the Grinch’s side, tail thumping, looking up and smiling, tongue lolling.

When the Grinch noticed her staring his eyes flashed and she ducked away. “Don’t your parents keep tabs on you? Or has your entire town lost their minds?”

“My moms over there,” she’d said weakly, pointing to where her mother was struggling with grocery bags. She was carrying one. It was all she could manage. Her mom had four.

The Grinch laughed under his breath at her mother tripping over a bit of ice out of the electric doors, catching herself quickly, before he turned round and walked back up towards the mountains, up Mt. Crumpet Road.

He hadn’t gone thirty feet when he’d stopped.

His dog looked up at him curiously.

There were carolers just down the road. A little group of them, singing about warm fires and family. His hands pulled to his chest and his throat shuddered and tightened. And then his shoulders rolled and he pulled in a breath and charged forward over the bridge and up the road.

(She remembered thinking that, for a guy that slept on bones and nails and glass and kept dogs as evil minions, he’d looked awfully…

… sad.)

“Honey?” Her mother called to her and she blinked and scrambled back, taking one more bag from Donna. “Thanks.”

“Course, mom.”

She smiled. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Grinches and mountains and lonely walks away.

* * *

While they’re walking her mother - through panting and huffing and shuffling through the stiff snow up the hill towards their house - talks about what they might do that weekend. “I have Saturday off,” she said. “There’s a museum in the town over with a new exhibit. Maybe a movie?”

Family days weren’t rare. They still had dinner together every night, and she was there every morning, and Fridays they always found time to watch a movie and her mom made an obnoxious amount of popcorn and her brothers fell asleep before the sun went down.

That was Cindy-Lou’s favorite night.

When her brothers fell asleep and she got her mom all to herself.

But the full days with her mother? Those were rare. Those were special. Those were _wonderful_. And there’d be more of them. If her mom wasn’t so busy holding up the world on calloused hands.

Cindy grinned, pulling the bags up, her arms straining. “That sounds good, mom!”

“I thought so, too.”

Cindy looked back down at her feet, kicking at some snow. Fluff puffed up and hit her leg.

She thought back on carolers and sad looking men. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen the Grinch. But it was the first time she’d been that close. Usually she’d done what the other kids had done and hid in another aisle or behind a tree.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?” Her mother stepped around a patch of ice, and she did the same.

“Mom, do you know the Grinch?”

There’s a beat, where all they can hear is their breathing and the snow crunching and the muted pulse of winter. Her mother thinks, screwing up her mouth. She’s frowning.

“No one really does, honey.” Her voice sounds stiff.

“But… do you _know_ him?”

“Yes, honey. Of course. I think-” she nearly dropped the bag, but caught it quick. “I think everyone does. He’s a legend by now. Every town has an eccentric, you know?”

“An… ex-en-tric?”

“He’s a grump who lives alone in a cave. He’s always lived alone. And he’s not really the easiest to put up with.”

“But how do you _know_?” Cindy's arms were straining and she held her hands tighter around the plastic bag. It was beginning to cut into her fingers. She stopped a moment to adust and stretch out her hands, and when she did she looked behind her. Like she might have caught a glimpse of him still walking up the hill. 

The mountains were bare and silent. 

Donna stepped in a puddle of slush and the sound drew Cindy back, and she caught up to her mom. ”Everyone sort of knows, I guess. Honey, are two bags two much for you? I can always-”

”M'fine, mom. So have you met him?”

“I’ve bumped into him. Once or twice.” She shrugged. "Everyone has. He lives in this town, too. Just farther away."

Cindy-Lou chewed on her lip. “Oh.” Then; “Do you think he… has anyone?”

“He doesn’t, sweetheart. No one like him ever does.”

It’s a final statement. And it stays with her the rest of the night. And just before bed, she peered through the window beside her. Her breath steamed little shapes into the panes while she pressed her face against the cool glass. There was a single light on she could barely see unless she squinted just so, somewhere far up the side of the uneven slope. He had a window, too, facing her. And it wouldn’t be long -while she watched and waited and breathed- before his light would flicker and go out.

Cindy-Lou rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling and thought long and hard.

A long, long while ago (not so long- just after Thanksgiving, really) Cindy-Lou had begun to concoct plans to help her mother by asking Santa.

Now she wondered if the Man in Red wouldn’t mind if she added another person.

But Santa couldn’t work with impossible cases. And the Grinch was turning out more and more to be an impossible case. “He’s got to be at least a little happy, first,” she said to the dark of her room. But how could someone make _the Grinch_ happy?

She could send him a card?

Or cookies! Everyone loved cookies. 

Or maybe a caroler or two. (She decided quickly against that one).

In the end she knew that this was a special case which meant that if Santa was going to help the Grinch, she’d need to give it all she had and before she'd fallen asleep, she‘d decided.

Cindy-Lou was going to embark on the most stupid and pointless adventure of all time.  

She was going to invite the Grinch to dinner.

* * *

**December 1st**

****(24 days before)** **

**.**

**.**

**.**

Her mother needs help.

She’s sad and desperate and alone, but so are other people, and when she tells her mother about her midnight revelation, Donna is skeptical, but on board.

“So… you want to do what?”

“Invite Mr. Grinch to dinner!”

“Christmas dinner?”

“No. Like _dinner_ dinner!” Cindy-Lou helps her brothers, passing them a toy they’d thrown too far, and they stop mid-scream to laugh. Buster shoves his foot in Bean’s face and Bean nearly hits him before Donna steps in and stops the beginnings of what might have been an explosive tantrum. “I think it would be nice! If we asked him over!”

“He’s not really known for his _inclusivity_ , sweetheart.” She’d never formally met the man. But there's definitely been an interaction or two. A shove in the supermarket during the summer rush. A muttered word under his breath.

But Cindy doesn’t budge, charging forward with her plan and hooking her mother in with such a brilliant and honest kindness that it takes Donna’s breath away. “But doesn’t that make more sense then? Why we should?”

“I don’t think he wants your help, honey. People like him… they’re not going to ask for help. Even when they need it.”

“Not help,” said Cindy. “ _Dinner_.”

Her mother thinks, brews, smiles. She reaches over and pinches her daughter's chin. “I think that sounds like a lovely idea, Cindy-Lou.”

Cindy-Lou grinned.

* * *

She and her mother scoured the internet and the library and finally find an old neighbor who still receives phone books. "Of course," their elderly neighbor, Mrs. Maudy, had ushered them in and offered them tea and a few stale cookies and brought out the well used thick book from a top shelf. Cindy-Lou ran her hands along it lovingly. "Most everyone is listed. They did it when they still required phone numbers in the census and he was definitely on the towns count. I remember. My cousin Ernie used to take the numbers way, way back. Had to climb up that hill to see the curmudgeon!"

Cindy-Lou flipped through the book while her mother sat on one of the old, squeaky chairs. "So you knew him?"

"Me? No. Saw him around of course. He always comes down for groceries and dog food." Mrs. Maudy cupped her hands around her tea mug and shuffled her slippered feet on the ground. "Never knew him to really talk to anyone. But if that's what you have planned..."

"It is!"

She was saluted with a tea mug for her bravery. "Godspeed," said the old woman before she took up the empty cookie plate to go refill.

It takes some time and a magnifying glass, but her mother is eventually the one that catches hold of what they were looking for. His name isn’t listed. But there’s an Unknown Number next to an address that had to be his, and she wrote it down on a scrap of paper and thanked Mrs. Maudy (who exclaimed that she was always glad to have guests ever since her husband had passed and to  _please_ come by again) and wandered home together while Cindy-Lou looked over her conquest with childish awe. 

The Grinch's phone number. 

She had  _the Grinch's phone number_. 

Her friends think she’s as close to a scary movie hero as anyone could get.

“So this is it,” says Groopert says, turning the slip of paper over in his hands. They’re sitting in the tree house together, backs to the walls. Her best friend holds his palms out flat like it might explode into flames and take them all down with it. The rest of her friends leaned over and didn't dare move any closer. “This is _his_ number.”

This is bigger than Krueger's glove or Freddy’s mask, they say. Their own personal boogeyman had a _landline_.

“Yeah,” breathed Cindy-Lou. “Can you believe it?”

He shook his head. Next to him Axel makes a move to poke it but changes his mind and pulls back. “What are you gonna do with it?”

She twisted her fingers into her coat. “Um… call him?”

Everyone’s eyes snap up. “ _What_ .” - “You’re crazy!” -” _No. Way_.” - “You’re kidding!”

She shrugged, wiggling back a little closer to the wall. “It might not be so bad.”

“Oh, it’ll be bad,” said Ozzy. “It’ll be _real_ bad. Because if you call him then- then he can figure out where you _live_. And he’ll probably sneak into your house or something and curse it! Or take all your cookies or-”

“Guys!” She held up her hands. “Calm down! I already sort of… met him?”

There was another round of disbelief.

“No! It’s true! When he came down to the grocery store!”

“Oh come _on_ ,” said Izzy, tugging on her scarf, “you know you’re _never_ supposed to go shopping when he does! Every kid knows that!”

“Well, we did! And I bumped into him.” She didn't mean to sound as smug as she might have, but this was the Who-Child's version of playing with matches. She'd done the impossible. The improbable. The insane. She, Cindy-Lou, had actually touched the Grinch and was alive to brag about it. 

Ozzy leaned forward. “Did his fur have little pieces of glass in it? Did he bring one of his dogs down with him?”

“No glass.” She ticked off her finger. “And… he brought a dog? But I think it’s his only dog? And the dog looked fine.”

“He probably trains it to look fine,” said Axel wisely. “He probably teaches them to look fine and then takes them back and shoves them in cages.”

Cindy-Lou shuddered. She could imagine the cages. He probably hung them from the ceiling and swung at them with hot pokers. Groopert was still holding the numbers, observing them. He looked up at her, worry drawn heavy against his face. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure.”

“But what happens if he curses you?”

“Then we’ll figure it out from there, I guess,” she said, “But I think I need to do this.”

“No offense, Cindy-Lou,” said Izzy. “I get wanting to help people. But why did you choose the _worst person to help_. That’s like practicing somersaults and then signing up for the Olympics! You know you’re not getting anything, right?”

“I know. But you guys should’ve seen him.” She thought back on all the rumors. The stories. And then the supermarket, where his eyes had turned sad and his hands had drawn up. He’d looked so scared. So alone. She tilted up her chin and fixed her eyes on her friends, trying to look brave. “I’m going to try, at least! And worst comes to worst, I can always ask Santa, right? Santa can fix anything I can’t! And I’ve been super good this season so maybe he’d be alright if I asked him for some help with other people!”

Her friends look at one another. The room is fogged with disbelief, and she knows too well that there isn’t much confidence on their side.

But at least they nod. Even if their eyes still read doubt and their smiles look fake, they nod.

She breathes out. “Thanks guys. Knew I could count on you.”

Groopert hands her the number. “Just don’t be too disappointed if it doesn’t work out.”

The _when_ goes unspoken.

(But she can hear it.)

* * *

She’s absolutely terrified. Holding the phone in one hand and the number in the other.

“You don’t have to do this,” her mother says. She’s on the floor with Buster and Bean, handing them blocks.

“No,” says Cindy-Lou, puffing out her cheeks like a marathon runner. “No, I have to.”

“It’s just one phone call, honey." Donna hands Bean another block and Buster whines and reaches for it. She looks up at her daughter then and says the sentence that she'll remember for many Christmas' to come. "It’s not like one phone call is going to change _everything_.”

* * *

The tree lighting is right around the corner (a few weeks away, and he felt every second as it pounded and thrashed by) and the Grinch has already begun sinking lower and lower into a darkness that the lights from the town below couldn't reach. Max, sitting at his feet constantly, watches him drown.

Drowning is a yearly tradition, and the dog has begun to expect it. Leaning against Grinch’s legs, pawing at his knee. Reminding him to go to bed with nips to his fingers. Reminders to eat and drink, running around his legs.

Sometimes just sitting by is enough.

Memories plague him. An aloneness that tugs him under.

Max whined, leaning against Grinch’s knee. They’re in front of the fire. Its warm, but when the Grinch reaches out and pets his head, Max felt his hands shaking. He knows it can’t be from cold.

The Grinch, his voice distant and far off and low, murmurs, “… it’s better this way.”

Max whined again, already knowing how the rest of the night would go. And the next day. Where there’d be memories and seconds passing in silence where he fell, fell, fell to places Max couldn’t reach him.

Max wondered vaguely if maybe he could find a way to crawl into Grinch’s bed that night. Nightmares were awful and gripping things, and his owners were silent suffering ones.

But it’s at that moment, that terrifying, awful, quiet moment, where the cave is silent and the emotions are pulling Grinch too far below-

**_RING_ **

**_RING_ **

**_RING_ **

\- that the phone rings.

Grinch shoots up. “ _What_?”

He goes silent, listening. Wondering if he was mistaken. Last time the phone had rung it had been a wrong number two years ago. He'd gotten a phone for prank calling citizens and takeout, and all he'd gotten was a bunch of spam in return. He wasn’t even sure why he kept the thing around anymore. It gathered dust and took up space on the kitchen counter.

**_RING_ **

**_RING_ **

**_RING_ **

But no. It was there. And it was real. And it was singing joyfully from the kitchen. Max followed along when Grinch got up, cautiously heading down the stairs, through the halls. The ringing swelled and bounced, and when they reach the phone he nearly didn't answer it.

“Could be a wrong number,” said Grinch, scowling. “And at _this hour_!”

Max barked, watching him.

He finally made a decision, lunging forward with what he hoped to be a surge of bravery (but was really more like a nervous bout of jolts and twitches), and grabbed the phone before its final rings, pressed the speaker button and snapped “ _what_ ” into the receiver.

For a moment there’s nothing.

And then: “You answered!”

There was a little girl is on the other line.

The Grinch blinked.

The little girl didn't wait for him to say anything and took the hollow silence as an invitation. “I can’t believe you answered! Mom said you wouldn’t answer. But I found your number in the yellow pages. You’re _super hard_ to find by the way but I bet you do that on purpose, don’t you?”

“... um?”

There’s a noise in the background, like a scuffling. A shuffling of movement and another person coming closer to the child to chastise, “Honey, don’t overwhelm the poor man!” The other voice sounded older and gentler, and the little girl bowed under it. 

“Right. Sorry! Sorry, Mr. Grinch!”

The sound of his name snapped him out of his shock, and he glared down at the phone still resting between his shaking fingers. “Look,” he snapped, “I don’t know who this is. But if this is some sort of prank-”

“It’s not! I swear! It’s not! I bumped into you yesterday, at the supermarket! Remember? You dropped your bag? Remember me?”

Max watched the Grinch’s eyes light with a spark of anger. “I remember you! If you’re calling to apologize-”

“I’m not!” A pause. “Or… maybe I should? And I’m really sorry about that, Mr. Grinch. But honestly, that’s not why I called! I actually called because I was talking to my mom and I wanted to invite you over to my house and she thought it was a great idea and so now I’m calling you and what do you think?”

Grinch choked, inhaling too fast and coughing hard. He slapped his chest a few times while Max ran a frantic little circle around his feet, pawing at his ankles. This child just- _did this child just_ - "I’m sorry, he finally managed to rasp. “It sounded… sound like you just _invited me over_.”

“I did!” she chirped. “For dinner! Tomorrow night!”

It’s brief. But Max catches it.

He’s watched long enough. Mapped the changes of Grinch’s face for so long that the geography of it was as old a friend as the person it was attached to. And so when the flicker of terror burst forward, Max caught it just before it fizzled away. “You know who I am, right?” The Grinch growled, reaching forward to grasp the edge of the countertop. His fingers pressed hard enough that the knuckles beneath green fur whitened. “This is- this is some sort of _joke_ -”

“No! What, _no_! It’s not! I’m just-”

“Look. If you wanna play pranks with your friends, why not play them on one of… one of the stupid Christmas shops or something.”

“But-”

He snarled  “leave me alone,” right before he slammed the phone back into the dock.

And that was that.

.

.

.

(Until it wasn’t.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	2. In Which Cindy-Lou finds a Scarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cindy-Lou goes to shovel pathways, hits a Grinch with a snowball, and finds his scarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now the real story begins

* * *

**December 2nd**

****(23 days before)** **

**.**

**.**

**.**

The Grinch began to plan to steal Christmas. He had plenty of time, and he mapped it out on a calendar, violently slashing away days as they’d passed. November was nearly shredded when he was done, and December 1st was brutally slain.

There’d been a snap. A punch of change that cracks deep inside him and Max watched it warily. Watched his poor owner sink further beneath the pressures.

For a time (a very scary, pulsating, awful time), it looked like he’d actually go ahead with it. He’d looked at books and drank too much coffee and played his organ until his fingers trembled. They counted houses and he jabbered on and on about Who’s and their selfish ways. That they needed to be _stopped_.

Things happened so quickly that Max’s head spins and the Grinch began to lose himself under all the insanity of the season.

And on that day, it looked like it may have gone the same way. He’d been fiddling with inventions in his lab, laughing maniacally and sucking back caffeine, when-

**_RING_ **

**_RING_ **

**_RING_ **

His head shot up, engine oil and metal dust clinging to his fur when he wrenched off the welding mask and looked over at the extension telephone stuck to his wall, embedded against blue crystals.

When the Grinch answered it, hesitating a moment above the receiver, he shouldn’t have acted as surprised as he was to hear the voice.

“Hi, Mr. Grinch!”

His mouth pulled into a line. “Oh, you’re kidding me.”

“Today’s tomorrow! Are you coming to dinner? We’re having mac and cheese!”

He snorted. “Oh you’re _kidding me_ ,” he said again, voice strung tight. “This again?” He was still carrying the welder, and he put it down on a table beside him, standing taller and tucking his now free hand behind his back. His fingers twisted and clenched. “I told you to stop calling.”

“No, I know. And I’m sorry for bothering you, really! But I told my mom you were coming even though you said you weren’t and I was sort of hoping that maybe if I called-”

“If you wanted to stop bothering me,” he snaps, cutting her off, “then I’d start by not calling.”

“But Mr. Grinch-”

“Leave. Me. Alone.” His words are punctuated with a grief he doesn’t mean to express. And so he sneers and snarks and tells her, “you’re awful at this prank thing” because it makes it sound like his voice isn’t shaking when he hangs up and slams the phone into its cradle.

Grinch picks the welder back up and weighs it.

Max watches him.

Watches him-

(drown)

(pull)

(fall)

(twist)

(break)

\- sigh.

“Just a prank call,” he tells Max, attempting a smile. He bent down on his way back to the sleigh and gave Max a pat on the head. “You know how kids are.”

Max slept next to his bed that night and didn’t mind the hard floor much when Grinch looks over the rim of his mattress appreciatively, reaching over the duvet to run his fingers down the dogs back.

He doesn’t expect the calls to happen again.

* * *

**December 3rd**

****(22 days before)** **

**.**

**.**

**.**

Except they do happen again. He got one while he was in the shower. Another while he was eating breakfast. A third happens almost by surprise around lunchtime. 

It's just after that, when he's down in his lab sketching out the blueprints of another idea he had -a bag that could hold more gifts because of its superior stretch and build (and if this plan fails, he tells himself he could absolutely make a fortune off stretch pants for yoga-obsessed wine moms)- when he gets call number four and he growls and marches right up to the phone and wrenches the plug from the wall. 

"You see this?" He shakes it in Max's face, and the dog backs away with a sniff. " _This is why we don't interact_." He threw the plug on the ground with a snap and mumbled something about common decency while he sharpened his pencil and went back to work. 

* * *

 Cindy-Lou tries to call him again before her mom got home from her afternoon shift at the hospital. A few times. Maybe more than a few times. And her mother would be so angry that social rules had been broken to try and get one grumpy man down to dinner. Multiple calls were for emergencies only, her mother had always said. And while Cindy-Lou considered this an emergency, her mom probably wouldn't have. 

He didn’t pick up, anyway. So it didn't matter.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” said Groopert, sitting on her steps, forming a snowball between his hands. “He’s better alone, you know? He can’t hurt anyone alone.”

“He doesn’t sound like he’d hurt anyone, though.” The legends of him still rattled around in her head, but they were beginning to stale over the new image of him. Over his sad eyes and his sad voice. He was filled to overflowing with sadness. “I think he’s just really, really alone.”

“Yeah, well, people like him are supposed to be.”

“My mom said the same thing.”

He threw the snowball and it exploded in a puff of white against the pavement. He grabbed more snow from a bush next to her stairs and started on a new one. “Listen to her. She’s usually right.”

She silently decided to ignore that advice.

* * *

**December 5th**

****(20 days before)** **

**.**

**.**

**.**

She’d called him a few more times, with no success. And so when she meets him again, it’s (what she considers to be) a fateful accident.

He’d been to the stores again, this time for fabric and wool and some metal parts he hadn’t had in his lab and she’d been walking up the mountain to see if anyone in Bricklebaum’s neighborhood needed their paths shoveled. A few extra dollars during the holiday season always did her some good.

Bricklebaum had said yes right away. “My old back can’t handle that sort of work,” he’d crowed, pointing to his path to his car from the back porch. “You do that for me and I’ll give you a twenty and a hot chocolate!”

“My rate is ten!”

“Eh, double for your troubles.”

She beamed.

She’d been at it for fifteen minutes and was almost done when the Grinch trekks past, doing what she suspected to be his best attempt at shuffling away from the house. He hadn’t expected her to drop her shovel and race as fast as she could through the deep snow panting “Mr. Grinch! Mr. Grinch, wait!” trying to catch up to him.

And he absolutely didn’t expect the ball of snow and ice to lob itself against the back of his head.

He jumped, yelping, and twisted around, dripping slush and scraping it off the back of his neck. His scarf untied itself, swinging around his shoulders. The dog was with him again, and barked, tongue lolling again, and wandered closer, tail wagging. The Grinch gasped, grabbing his chest. “Don’t _do_ that.”

“Sorry!” She grinned, her gloves still covered in bits of ice and snow. “Remember me!”

“No,” he snapped, wiping off his neck again. But then his eyes narrowed and he looked at her more closely, up and down, and his face twisted into something like smelling sour milk. “Oh my god, it’s _you_.”

“It’s me,” she said, lifting her arms up, wiggling them. “You still haven’t said yes to dinner.”

“Because you won’t stop calling me!”

“Because you won’t say _yes_!”

He rolled his eyes. His dog wandered a little closer to her and the Grinch muttered, “Max, stay” and the dog reluctantly did. “What are you doing here anyway. Here to annoy more adults?”

“No,” she arched her head and straightened her back. “I’m shoveling his path!”

He snorted. “You know Bricklebaum?”

“He’s friends with my mom! You know him, too?”

“Neighbor,” said the Grinch. “Unfortunately.”

“He’s nice!”

“He’s insufferable.”

Cindy-Lou wasn’t sure what insufferable meant, but it didn’t sound like a nice word and she crossed her arms. “Well maybe you should talk to him! You can get to know people better when you actually talked to him.”

“I don’t talk to anyone,” the Grinch seethed. “And on that note,” he leaned closer and her heart actually did stop at that, feet moving backwards on their own. “ _Stop calling me_.”

It wasn’t until he’d turned around and called for his dog that she got her courage back enough to yell, “if you want me to shovel your path, you have to come to dinner!”

“Good thing I don’t want you to, then!” he called back.

* * *

It wasn't until he was gone and the path is done and she’d gotten a whole twenty dollar bill shoved into her pocket that she noticed it.

Laying against the snow, freckled with frost, was his scarf. Detached from his person. She couldn’t remember a winter where she’d seen him without it around his neck, and she was almost afraid to touch it. 

When she picked it up, it was heavy. And warm. And a little soggy from all the snow. But it felt normal enough.

She considered taking it up the mountain to him, but it was getting dark and she wasn’t ready to face evil, bone clad doors yet. So she tucked it around her own neck a few times and held the rest in her arms and headed home.

* * *

The Grinch’s long walk home was a silent one and he was grateful when he got back. He’d left the heat on, and when he opened the door Max practically threw himself towards it. “Hold on,” the Grinch chuckled, undoing the ties of the cart. “Careful, buddy.”

Max went charging up the stairs as soon as he was free and the Grinch heard the squeaking of his favorite ball from up the stairs. He snorted, smiling fondly, and reached for his neck to put his scarf up on the hook.

His hand fell against nothing.

He frowned, patting his neck. Looking down he saw nothing but chest and stomach and legs and feet, all sans favorite scarf. “Oh-” he breathed. “Oh _no no no_ -”

A peek outside in the dim light told him all he’d needed to know.

His scarf was lost.

“Oh no _nononono_.”

Max came back down the stairs with his ball, ready to play, but stopped when he saw Grinch frantically pacing back and forth across the floor. “My scarf!” He looked to his dog, gesturing to his neck. “I can’t- _I must’ve dropped_ -”

Max left his ball on the floor and ran a little circle around Grinch’s feet, nipping at his fingers and pawing at the door. _Let’s go then_ , he seemed to say. _Let’s go find it!_

The Grinch tried a shaky smile, nearly succeeding, and opened the door. Max was already out like a shot, nose to the ground. “Good boy,” he called after, voice hollow. He followed along as fast as he could, waiting for Max to find something. Anything.

But by the time they’d made it down the mountain to the cusp of the Who town, there’d been nothing to find, and Max ran back mournfully, turning comforting and apologetic circles between his legs.

He sat numbly by the fire that night. The red fabric and wool for the Santa suit he’d gotten that day leaned against the wall, but he’d had yet to touch it. Instead, he sat on the floor and leaned his head against the wall.

Great.

Just… _great_.

It had been a scarf, he tried to remind himself. Just a scarf. Scarves could be replaced.

But this had been a special scarf. A scarf he’d worn most of his life. A thing of comfort he’d wrapped round himself. A constant through changing and worsening times.

“And so close to Christmas, too,” he’d laughed sourly, voice acid. “ _Wonderful_ .” This is why he hated Christmas. He lost _everything._

Max whined and lay his head in the Grinch’s lap. “Thanks for trying,” he murmured, scratching Max’s ears. “Good boy.”

Later on that night, Max will take him through the motions, no matter how little he wants to take part in them. He's done it before, too many times to count, when Grinch couldn't seem to get the energy or will to take care of anything. When he stared at the wall or sat on the floor or wrung his hands until green fur began to mat and shed. And Max always intervened. Always. 

And so he does it now. Grinch had at least moved to his chair and was staring into the last bubbling coals of the fire. Grabbing the bottom of Grinch's robe by his teeth, he tried to pull him off the chair. “Not now, Max,” Grinch mumbled, giving him a push away, but Max just pulled at him again.

Grinch looked down. When he smiled, it still looked sad, but it was something. He put the still full mug of tea he'd made himself aside. It was cold, anyway. “Time for bed, huh?”

Max ran a little circle under his legs, brushing up against his calves.  _Bed! Bedtime!_

"Yeah. Okay." He stood. His movements were numb and slow and empty, but he followed them. Followed Max, more specifically. Followed the dog into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Followed Max into the hallway to put away the fabric. Followed Max to the kitchen to clean off the counter of empty, ripped paper tea bags. 

It was part of the process of wiping and sweeping that he plugged his phone back in without much thought. 

And he won't think about it when Max finally deems the kitchen clean enough to lead him to his bed. "Thanks, Max," he says, half through a yawn, half through a sigh. He reached down to press his fingers into the short, sharp fur. Max nipped his fingers and went off to his own bed in the kitchen, keeping one ear lifted in case a bell sounded. 

There wouldn't be one. And the cave was silent the rest of the night. 

* * *

  
If a number could impress her friends, the Grinch’s scarf all but destroyed their minds. And so after she'd called them all to meet her behind one of the shops on Main Street and she wrangled it from off her neck, they'd all but torn it off of her. It was the closest they'd been to the Whoville's most cursed object. 

“I. Can’t. Believe it.” Axel managed to get his jaw hinged back in place to speak. He touches the scarf and shudders. “I can’t believe you _stole the Grinch’s scarf_!”

“I didn’t steal it! He _dropped it_.”

Ozzy shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. You got it. That’s… that’s _crazy_ , dude.”

“It’s not crazy! He just _dropped_ it.”

“Naw. It’s crazy,” said Izzy. “You know he’s never seen without this, right? During winter, this is what he wears. My brother told me that it’s because if he doesn’t wear it his head’ll fall off, or something.”

“But he doesn’t wear it in summer.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t say the idea was perfect.”

"It's cursed," said Axel. " _Definitely_ cursed."

Cindy-Lou reaches for the scarf, taking it back from her friends. It was a little worn. There were some holes in the edges, and a good deal of green and brown fuzz and fur stuck in the weavings. It would need some stitching. Her mom didn’t know how to sew clothes, but she’d definitely had sewed up many a wound in her time. That might have been the same. “I think he’s going to miss it. I’m going to give it back.”

"You should  _burn_ it, is what you should do." Ozzy scowled at the knitted thing. 

"No!" She held it close. "He's got to get this back!" 

“Your funeral,” said Ozzy.

Beside him, Axel nodded. “Can I have your hockey stick after they bury you?”

She rolled her eyes.

* * *

“Why are you doing this?” Groopert asks later as they rode towards their houses. She was half wearing-half holding the scarf between the handlebars. It was rediculously long on her. 

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“No,” he said. “Why are you _really_ doing this?”

The two of them stopped outside the street where they usually parted. Up ahead, six houses away, was Groopert’s house. Up the hill was hers. She planted her foot against the sidewalk. “It’s sort of personal.”

“We’re _best friends_. You can tell me!”

She pointed at him, squinting. “You can’t tell _anyone else_.”

“I swear.”

Lowering her finger, she sighed. Under the dim street lights their town felt smaller, more condensed, and she squirmed under her coat at the smallness of it all. “I guess… I guess I’ve been watching my mom. And you know how hard she works. My mom- she’s not _happy_.” There was something like a twinge when she said it. A sharp pain someone deep inside her. Remembering mornings with her mother leaned over the counter, counting down from ten with little mantras.

_You can do this._

_Hold it together._

_Just hang on_.

“My mom’s sad,” she said, looking down at her hands against the handlebars, squeezing them tight. “And I’m going to ask Santa this year to help her.”

“Yeah, but that’s _her_ ,” said Groopert. “That’s not _The Grinch_.”

She nodded. “No, I know. But… I guess… the other day I saw him at the supermarket and then I heard his voice over the phone and…”

And his face had reminded her of something.

_You can do this._

_Hold it together._

_Just hang on_.

“There’s so many people who are sad,” she told him. “And it’s not fair. And they all deserve to be happy.”

“He’s the Grinch,” said Groopert. “He’s going to be angry.”

“Not _angry_ ,” she corrected. “ _Sad_.”

He scoffed. “Whatever. I think you should just concentrate on your mom. She’s family.”

His logic is sound. Family came first.

But even the wisest bits of knowledge got all screwed up and knotted sometimes, and one question kept popping up, tying her logic into impossible little knots. _What if someone who needs it has no one?_ Family came first. But if there wasn’t even that, then there couldn’t be a _first_ . There couldn’t be _anything_.

Her mother needed her. But Cindy-Lou has a well of empathy in her big enough for a world three times over and it demanded to be used, with or without her permission. She said goodbye to her best friend and walked her bike up the hill, watching the city grow smaller and smaller beneath her, finally allowing her to breathe.

* * *

  **December 6th**

****(19 days before)** **

**.**

**.**

**.**

He doesn't pick up. But she didn’t expect him to. And so when his answering machine beeped at her (after his voice barked _just leave a message or whatever_ ) she’d chirped “Hi, Mr. Grinch! Remember me? I saw you the other day made you drop your bags! And anyway, I found your scarf and I brought it home with me and I have it here! And if you want it back just call my mom!” She rattled off her number before pausing, rethinking her conditions.

“And also you’ve got to pick it up from my house so you have to be here for dinner!”

She tells her mother about her plan before going out to meet her friends.

“Honey, you can’t antagonize this poor man. He’s not the nicest and he’s alone for a reason-”

“I _know_ mom.”

“He’s going to want to stay alone, honey.”

“But…” she twisted her fingers together, and tugged on a strand of her hair, “don’t you _want_ him over?”

Her mother hesitated. “Well… I mean… it’d definitely be… _interesting_.”

She swallowed, watching her mother. Her mother who had just pulled a double shift at the hospital and was still home to be with them. Her mother who was so sad and so alone and did her very best to hide it.

Her mother who deserved the whole world.

Like so, so many people. So many lonely, sad people.

“Doesn’t everyone deserve to be happy?” she asked quietly.

Her mother's face softened. “Of course they do, sweetheart.”

“I just… I want to _try_ , mom.”

There’s a pause. A beat. A nod. “Okay,” she tells her daughter, kneeling on the floor to pull the tiny child into a tight hug. There’s no space between them, and Cindy-Lou can feel her mother's heart beating proud against her. “ _Try_.”

* * *

Not only does he get the message, but he listens to it over, and over, and over again. He'd forgotten that he'd plugged the phone back in, and he still can't tell if he's happy or upset about it. 

 _-if you want it back just call my mom!_ The message said, fuzzy through the reception. _And also you’ve got to pick it up from my house which means you have to be here for dinner!_

“I can’t believe this.” He held the phone, sitting at his kitchen table. There was a cup of tea at his elbow and Max was at his feet, licking his paws free of ice.

The Grinch had given up working on his Santa Suit. The loss of his scarf had been harder on him than he’d thought it would be, and he and Max had been up and down the hill a few times looking for it with no results. And so he’d holed up after that while Max watched, worried. They'd just been back from a trip back down the mountain where the wind had all but assaulted them, when he saw his phone blinking. He’d begun expecting the Little Nuisance from down the hill to call. He hadn’t thought she’d leave a message.

And when he’d listened to it and found out that she’d found his scarf…

“I can’t believe this.” He slumped down in his seat and stared up at the vaulted ceilings. “This is ridiculous, right? This is totally ridiculous.”

Max made a noise and went back to chewing the ice off his toes. The last search for the scarf had been a particularly cold one.

“That little… that little _brat_ thinks she can get me down there?” He snorted. “Well, she can’t.”

Max made another dull noise.

“She’s a brat. She probably just wants to drag me down there so she can say that The Grinch on the mountain was over at her house. Probably can’t wait to tell her friends all about how she captured me or something.” He crossed his arms. “Like I’m gonna fall for that.”

He’d heard the stories. How could he _not_ have heard them? And he was content enough to let them speak for him. He had his isolation for a reason, and if some kids thinking he used their bones to make his front door kept him alone, then that was fine.

He replayed the message again.

- _got to pick it up from my house which means you have to be here for dinner!_

“This is dumb,” he said again.

He looked out the window. It was 4 pm, and the sun had already begun to burn the tops of the trees. It would be dark soon. He paced back and forth, examining the sunset in all its treachery. But after what must have been his hundreth pace round the kitchen table, he inhaled deep and ran his hands through the puff on his head. “Okay,” he said to Max. “I’m going to go.” Max sat up and barked. “But I’m not going for _dinner_. I’m going to go there and knock on her front door and grab my scarf and then we’re leaving. Got it?”

 _Sure_ , Max stretched. _Whatever you say_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	3. In Which Cindy-Lou finds a Seat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cindy-Lou traps Grinch in her house, Max makes himself at home, and Grinch is not happy. But at least there's food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to say that this is it and he goes to dinner and his heart grows three sizes and that's it!
> 
> But come on, dudes. You know me better! We might have gotten to the dinner scene, but we've still got to get to growth, guilt, and angst, angst, angst! 
> 
> Hold onto your seats! We are in for a ride!

**December 6th (6:32 pm)**

**(18 Days, 5 Hours, and 29 Minutes Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

He’d had a plan. He’d definitely had a plan.

In his mind it had worked something like this:

He’d walz up to the front door. Late, naturally. He'd made _sure_ he left at least fifteen minutes after he'd need to to get there on time. The little blonde Who girl with her stupid smile would open it and would probably be there and ready. He guessed with a camera, to snap a picture of the Grinch she’d caught. Then her mother would probably show up and yell at him for being so cruel and awful (and also, late). And when they were done he’d laugh, he’d grab his scarf, and then on Christmas Eve he’d make sure their house was the first on his list.

He could see them. See them crying over an empty living room, void of presents and trees and lights.

They’d pay for what they were going to do to him. Pay for their traps and their holidays.

“Remember, Max,” he briefed the dog when the walked up the long drive. “You have my permission to attack them. The girls small, so she’s going to be the easiest to take down. But she’s probably the quickest, too. And if she’d got a camera, that’s obviously gotta go first.” He thought a moment, stepping over a few little icy rocks. “And her mother is going to come at me next and when she does, you sweep her legs!” He made a motion with his arm, like a karate chop. “Do what you’ve got to! You’ve got the power here.”

Max rolled his eyes and chuffed.

But by the time they reach the house and are standing in front of the door, most of that confidence had tapered off into something softer, and as much as he tries to regain it with little huffs of _you can do this_ and _they’d better watch out_ , it fails to return.

His hands wind into one another. He tugs at his fingers.

The house is decorated in lights. He could see it from the bottom of the hill and now, standing in front of it, he’s left a shadow under its soft glow. He can see shapes flit about behind the window blinds. The smell of something cooking seeps out. There’s the faint sounds of a radio. Laughter. Running up and down stairs.

The front door seems to barely hold it all back from washing over him.

“I can’t do this.” He takes a step back.

Max hops up the steps next to him, slipping a little on the last one, before sitting down and wagging his tail. He butts him with his head. _Go!_

“I don’t really need that scarf anyway…”

Max ran around in back of him to block his way and barked.

“Max- Max _stop_. It’s fine! I can buy a new one or make one in the lab or-” He twisted his fingers again, bending them back until it stung.

This was the worst. God, this was the absolute _worst_ . _Why had he thought he could do this!_ Turning around, he looked at the door just barely holding back the horrors inside.

“Because,” he reminded himself, gritting his teeth hard enough for his jaw to crack, “they took from you. They took from you like they always take from you.” He looked down at Max, who didn’t seem interested in his diabolical monologuing. “We can do this,” he said. “ _I_ can do this. He rolled his shoulders back. “Okay… grab the scarf, leave. Easy. It’ll be… easy.” He closed his eyes and forced the surge of faux courage to overtake him just long enough to ring the bell. “ _Grab the scarf and leave_.”

Max, next to him, sat down and wagged his tail. It thumped harder, drumming the little deck, when there was a noise from beyond the door and it was pulled open.

The grump, ready for an attack, flinched back from the light of the open door and drew up his hands into little fists by his chest. 

The woman who was in the doorway was surrounded by the ethereal glow of LED’s. She was wearing all pink. “Oh, Mr. Grinch! You’re here!” She smiled. “We’re so happy you could make it! _Welcome!_ ”  She stretched out her hand for him to shake, thrusting it into the cold, and he skidded back a few inches, like the hand might have gone right through him if she’d let it. “I’m Donna.”

He didn’t take her hand, looking between it and the person it belonged to.

She didn’t stop smiling.

He swallowed and raised his chin, tucking his hands behind himself so she wouldn’t see his twisting fingers. “I’m here to get my scarf,” he said, trying to sound foreboding. It was hard to do when his voice wavered and cracked. “Your… _child_ (little brat, he stopped himself from saying, though it very nearly slipped off his tongue) _found_ it. And I want it back.”

If she was offset by the curt tone, she didn’t show it, dropping her unshaken hand. “Of course! Yes! We’ve got it right here!”

She opened the door and motioned him in.

He swallowed, looking past her. He’d imagined their houses to look more like Christmas Utopias. Places drenched in the assault of holiday cheer. But from over her shoulder, he saw little more than a couch, a few pictures, a few chairs. He searched frantically for the traps and cameras, but couldn’t see any from where he stood.

“It’ll take a minute.” Her voice was encouraging when she gestured him in again. “I just have to grab it from downstairs and- wait-" She held up a finger like they were sharing in some secret conspiracy he'd never agreed to before she shouted, " _Cindy-Lou_! Look who showed up!”

There was a scampering sound, and a child bounded down the stairs and raced to the doorway.

And just like that, the little girl from the shopping trip, the phone calls, and the mountain was standing in front of him. There wasn’t a camera, and she didn’t look ready to pounce, but she did jump in front of the door with enough gusto to shudder the floorboards under him. “YOU CAME!” she squealed. “YOU CAME YOU CAME YOU CAME!” She rocked on her heels and beamed up so earnestly that he took another little step away.

At this point, he was sure he’d fall off a step if he moved any farther back.

“Don’t overwhelm the poor man,” her mother chastised, stepping to the side to let him pass. He was going to refuse. He’d had the speech planned. _I’m here for my scarf_ , he’d say with his hands out. _Give it to me and maybe, if I’m feeling generous, I won’t report your child for harassment._

But that plan fell, too, flat on its face because as soon as Cindy-Lou looked past him at the dog who was wiggling on the stoop her bright face somehow lit up more and she reached out her hands and said “hi, doggy!” and Max took that as all the invitation he needed to sprint into the house.

“Wait-!” he stepped forward to try and stop the dog, but it was too late. He'd lost his dog to the house and the child inside. 

“It’s fine.” The mother must have misinterpreted his panic as empathy and not selfish terror. “I have kids. I’m used to animals tearing up everything-”

He wanted to say that he wasn’t worried about her stupid furniture, and if Max ever had it in himself to tear up anything in their house, he’d praise the dog all the way to Timbuktu. But the mother stepped to the side again and gestured him in, and without Max there wasn’t much of an option to stay on the porch alone. Reminding himself to talk to his dog later, he took a deep, painful breath, and stepped through the door.

Max was still running circles, smelling everything, but finally stopped enough to attack the small girl. Grinch, blowing the cold off his hands, nearly praised him before he realized that his dog was licking her face. She giggled and scratched his head. “I love your puppy!”

He stuffed his hands under his arms and looked away. “His name’s Max. Not _puppy_.”

Max gave her another lick. “Good boy, Max!” The dog barked and then sped off and around to explore.

Their house was warm. The glow from the lights and the oak furniture and whatever was cooking on the stove had twisted up into something soft. Toys were scattered around in what looked like the beginnings of a clean-up session. There were drawings in picture frames and family pictures and Christmas cards taped to one of the walls. He stood still as he could manage, arms tucked to his body and feet tightly pressed together, and when the door was closed behind him by the little girl, he jumped.

He wanted to call Max back to him but found his voice had lost itself.

There was a tickle on the back of his spine, and he turned. The girl was watching him.

“I’m Cindy-Lou,” she said, smiling up at him. “Cindy-Lou Who!”

He swallowed. “I don’t care.”

“That’s okay! I already know you’re Mr. Grinch.” Her smile brightened. It made his stomach turn. “You _came_!”

“Of course I came,” he snapped. “You stole my scarf.”

“No,” she laughed, still bouncing, “you dropped your scarf!”

“And you took it.”

“Mhm! And you came for dinner!”

“No. Just for the scarf.”

“Uh huh.” She rocked on her heels. “But that wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Since when did I agree to-”

His fight with a six-year-old is cut short when her mother came back up from a door that must have lead to the basement. “Here we are! We gave it a little wash- it was a little mucked up after being in the snow-” His heart and belly and throat all tighten and press together, and his hands lift on their own to take the offered scarf from her.

When he says thank you, he doesn’t mean to.

Relief does crazy things to a Grinch.

“It’s no problem at all.” And she sounded like she meant it.

Cindy-Lou bounced up towards him, pointing towards the middle of the scarf. He pulled it away so her fingers wouldn’t touch it, but she didn’t mind. “And look! Look! We fixed it!”

“You-” He stretched the scarf out between his two hands.

He’d almost expected it to come back in shreds. Like the Who’s might have taken a scissor and years of frustration and dug into the well-loved knitwear. Given him more a reason to hate. To despise.

But this scarf had been cared for. Returned. And its captives were watching him expectantly.

There were no cameras.

No attack force.

Just a clean scarf and a warm home and two smiling Who’s.

His belly and lungs do another little flip and tie together, and he feels something deep inside him (something dark, and thick, and sharp) loosen its hold.

There’d been holes in his scarf. Age had not been kind, and he’d been meaning to give it some TLC, but it had always gotten pushed to the backburner under other, more pressing things. Inventions. Games of chess. Moping in front of the fire. Plans to steal Christmas. He runs his hand along it, and the scent of lavender hits him.

“We thought maybe it needed a little love,” her mother explained, holding her vibrating daughter still by the shoulders. “I’m not much of a sewing expert so I’m sorry if it’s a little... botched, but it’s part of my job so I did my best!”

“And I washed it!” the girl chirped proudly. “Mom showed me how to wash it, and I washed it!”

He ran his hand along it again.

 _Mean,_ he reminds himself. _You need to be mean._

But he finds he can’t be. And so he manages a barely rude “yeah, okay.”

He’s still so stunned that he doesn’t register when the girl is reaching up to tug at his hand. “Great,” she chirps. “You can hang it over there! Dinners ready!” And she scampered away before he could say no.

* * *

He stood there for some time. Holding his scarf and poking at what used to be holes (now puckered little spaces), numbly running his hands back and forth along the clean stitches. They were done with a thick thread. A little visible -he could have done better with some time and a thin needle- but just barely.

He broke out of his reverie at the sound of clinking silverware and stiffened. Dinner. That’s what the little girl had just said. That dinner was ready and he was here and he had to stay. He shook himself awake and backed away towards the front door, gesturing to Max, who had returned from his exploration and was standing in front of the kitchen, nose up. “Come on. Let’s go! Before they notice!”

Max sat down and stared at him.

“Come _on_ , Max!” He began to wind the scarf around his neck and move towards the door. Lavender overwhelmed and filled him and he tugged it away from his face.

Max lay down.

“Max. This isn’t the time-”

Donna (or Mrs. Who, he wasn't sure) poked her head around the kitchen door and asked, “do you want water or wine, Mr. Grinch?”

He stumbled back a step. His hand had been up, moving towards the door handle, and he froze before jerking it away and behind his back. “Uh- uh-”

“I’ll just put out a bottle and you can have some if you want.” She disappeared but reemerged briefly to say “you can hang your scarf up there,”  in a voice that makes him think she knew what he was planning before vanishing behind the door again.

“Max.” He practically begged. “We need to _go_. _Now_.”

But Max had his own plans and he made them clear with a yawn and a stretch, rolling onto his side.

Grinch glared at him. “I’ll leave,” he threatened. “You’ll live here, now. With these nasty, awful, treacherous Who’s. And I’ll never come back for you. Ever.”

Max let out a contented, sarcastic sigh.

Grinch grabbed the doorknob. “I’m leaving,” he warned. “Right now. I’m _leaving_. For _real_.”

Max chuffed and settled. The Grinch numbly let go of the door handle. As if he could go anywhere without that stupid dog. “Fine,” he snapped. “But you’re not getting treats for a _week_.”

Max peeked open an eye and then closed it again. _Liar_.

And so the Grinch stiffened and breathes in deep and unwound his scarf and, for a final touch, hangs it in the wrong spot on the wall. He pressed down the fur on his chest and shoulders threatening to stand on end, faced the kitchen, and submitted himself to fate.

His fate, as it turns out, was spaghetti.

“Come on,” said Cindy-Lou, dragging him through their little kitchen. “You can sit next to me!”

Max followed along, hopping on his two back legs to smell the counters before scuttling beneath the table.

Like their living room, it was small. but it wasn’t cramped. The kitchen was still warmed from the stove. The table was pocked with crayon marks and pencil etchings from years of use; little strings of numbers and letters, homework, coloring books, signatures and scratch-outs. He ran his hand along them without really knowing why.

She pulled out a chair for him and he sat, trying hard to hide his nerves. But his tapping fingers and twitching feet and bouncing legs betrayed him, and he twisted his fingers round the base of the chair as if that would somehow ground him to stillness.

He looked around to find something to do other than twisting at his fingers raw against the wood and saw the marks on the doorway. Cindy-Lou’s were all in pink. There were two more.

“Um- There are more kids…?” Looking around the table he saw the highchair. The plastic forks and spoons by the sink. His guard began to tighten; he couldn’t deal with more Who’s. Not not. Not with how far he was being dragged down.

Donna nodded, brushing his wrist in what must have been comfort, but he pulled away, skin stinging. “There are. But they’re not gonna be here. Don’t worry.” She passed a plate his way before handing Cindy-Lou hers.

“They’re asleep!” said Cindy, who clambered up the side of her chair with practiced ease and sat happily on the pile of dictionaries that her mother had set there so she could reach.

“They’re… a lot. Sweet, but a lot. We didn’t want you to have to deal with them on top of everything else.”

He nodded but didn’t relax. Not when Donna passed him a cup of water or piled steaming noodles onto his plate or when Cindy-Lou pushed a bowl of sauce his way.  

He doesn’t relax, really, until there’s little attention on him. Until they’re both treating him like a boring extra at their table and not like the spectacle he suspected he’d be. The Green recluse who prowled in the mountains above. It’s only then that his shoulders lower and his arms start working again.

Staying quiet is the easiest route. It keeps him from stuttering through sentences (deciding if he’s being mean enough or saying the right things takes brain power, and his has long abandoned him and is cackling from front-row seats).

So instead he falls back on his own nervous habits and eats.

It’s been some time since he’d had a real, home-cooked meal. Most of his food came from a can or the freezer or any assortment of sadish places. But the small table isn’t sad. And he actually was hungry. And as much as he might have wanted to run from the room or find some excuse, he found that he couldn’t.

And the longer he stayed, the more comfortable he grew.

The tiny table was alluring. Their elbows bump together when they raise their forks but no one minded at all. Cindy-Lou chattered on and on about science projects and her mom listened with gentle enthusiasm, nodding along at all the right parts.

He got involved accidentally when she’d explained that her new science teacher was showing them how to transfer electricity but she and her partner hadn’t figured it out yet, and he’d taken a huge bite of spaghetti and said, “just switch the wires and find a conduit. I use’m all the time in my lab-”

Their eyes both snapped to him. Cindy-Lou dropped a noodle and it slipped onto the floor where Max attacked it.

They’re the first words he’d said, and he hunched back right away. “Uh- I mean…”

“ _You have a lab!_ ”

He’d tapped his fork into his spaghetti a few times. “... Yes?”

Cindy-Lou looked star-struck. “That,” she said, “is _awesome_.” She bounced on the books and stared up at him. He squirmed. “What do you build there! Did you ever build a car!”

“Cindy-Lou,” her mother warned, “don’t crowd him, sweetie.”

“No…" He surprised himself -and them, if their raised brows were any sign- when he shook his head and said, "it’s fine… I- yeah. I built a car.” Her eyes went bigger. “And a bike,” he confessed. “And a few other little things?"

She abandoned her fork and held onto the table lip.  " _You have a lab_ ," she breathed. 

He squirmed. "It’s-um… it’s not-not a big deal. Really.”

Cindy threw herself dramatically forward and declared, “It’s a _huge_ deal! Mom- mom can you believe he-"

"I'm right here, honey," says Donna into her wine glass (and Grinch swears she's laughing). "I can hear him fine." 

Her daughter ignored the quip and leaned further towards him until her entire body was almost squished onto the table. "What else!"

"Um... well...?" 

And so he told her. 

That became the topic of conversation for the rest of the night. Cindy-Lou kept her eyes on him, and Donna Who watched them both, pouring herself a second glass of wine. He explained blueprints and equipment management and waited for Cindy-Lou to get bored, but she never did, eyes fixed and bright and astounded. It was easier to talk about something he knew this well. Like having a safety blanket wrapped around him. He didn't have to think about his tapping fingers or bouncing leg. 

And as quickly as his torture began, it ended when Donna looked at the empty dishes, clapped her hands once and said: “Cindy-Lou, it’s a school night.”

“ _Mom_ …” They’d been in the middle of talking about one of his motorbikes. She looked desperately up at her mother. “ _Now_?”

“Cindy-Lou.”

He looked up at the clock. 8:47. He hadn’t realized that much time had passed. And neither had Donna, apparently, who was ushering her daughter off the chair muttering something like  _impossible to get you up in the morning_. “Oh- yeah- I- I’d better be going.” He stood too fast, and his chair pushed back with an awful screech. He flinched, flushing pink. “I- I’ve got to- I’ve got stuff to do tomorrow and… you know…” he finished lamely with a shrug and felt the fire reach the tip of his ears. 

So much for trying to exude mean and nasty. Pathetic. 

Cindy-Lou didn’t notice his total anxious breakdown (and if Donna did, she graciously didn’t say anything) and let out another dramatic sigh, falling back against the chair. “ _Fine,_ ” she said, breaking the word into three vicious syllables (fi-ya-na.).

The dishes were dumped into the sink and Cindy-Lou ran to get his scarf, handing it to him. “Thank you so much, Mr. Grinch! We’ll see you soon, right?”

He wanted to say no. He really wanted to say no. But then Donna was coming out of the kitchen with a Tupperware container full of spaghetti and pushing it into his hands and leading him to the door, and the “yeah,” sort of slipped out on its own.

“Thank you,” Donna said, holding the container against his hands so that her fingers brushed his for longer than he wanted. “Really. _Thank you._ ”

“I- It’s no problem-”

She let go and their fingers slipped apart. He relaxed, but the burn of where her flesh had touched stayed. “You don’t get it,” she whispered, just quietly enough so her daughter, standing behind her, couldn’t hear. “You made her night.”

All he could come up with to say was a flat sort of“O-oh?”

He hadn’t said much after that. He’d sort of just left. But that had seemed fine to the Who’s, who’d expected it. Donna had watched him go and Cindy-Lou had called out “goodnight” and “bye, doggy!” from the porch, and he’d waved for no reason.

He walked home with Max at his heels and a container of spaghetti in his hands and a scarf around his neck.

“That was… weird. Right?”

Max jumped ahead and pounced on a snowflake. They were trekking up Mt. Crumpet Lane and everything around them was cold except for the still-warm leftovers. The night was behind him and was already becoming blurry. The Tupperware in his hands stayed the same, though.

(he was thankful one thing did)

“We can both agree that that was weird,” he told Max. His dog sneezed. 

He thought about it the rest of the night, lying in bed, listening to the wind stamp morse code against his windows. He thought about tiny kitchens and lavender and small elbow-hitting tables.

He’d think about it all night and all the next morning when he had to remind himself that he was planning on stealing Christmas and he had actual work to do.

It was odd.

He’d forgotten.

* * *

“Can you believe it, mom?” Cindy-Lou snuggled under her covers while her mom tucked her in. Cars passed by far below their home and cast waves across her ceiling. “Grinch was in _our house_.”

Donna smiled, dragging the covers to her daughter's chin. “I know.”

“He sat at our table!”

She bent down and picked up a pair of pants, and threw them into the hamper. “I know.”

“And he ate  _dinner_ ! With _us_!”

“I know.” She leaned down and kissed her daughters forehead. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“I think you were right.” Getting up, she pressed the wrinkles out of the covers with her flat palms. “I think he just needed some people.”

“Right?” She sat up and undid all her mothers work when the covers untucked. “I think we have to invite him over again! He wasn’t all that mean, once he was over!”

“I think you’re right.” There was still some hesitation, but it was gradually waning. Donna had noticed it, too; the Grinch out of his natural environment looking less like a grump and more like a terrified, lonely man. A desperately lonely man. The character who’d elbowed and growled his way through streets and supermarkets was hard to see when he’d been so close to her, looking small, jumping at every small noise and movement. She leaned down and pulled the covers back up. “I’m glad you suggested it.”

“I’m glad, too.”

Her mother turned off the light to her room and started to walk down the stairs when she stopped and turned around, watching the small girl with a long moment of concentration. “You know what, Cindy-Lou?”

Her daughter rolled over, watching her mother, bending her fingers around the covers and pulling them under her chin.

“You are a marvel.”

Cindy-Lou wasn’t sure what that meant, but she was glad her mom had said it. Something about the idea of being a marvel made her feel all sorts of warm.

* * *

 

**December 7th**

**(18 Days Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

The next phone call he got wasn’t from Cindy-Lou. He answered and expected to hear a child and was surprised when Donna was on the other line.

“Oh,” she’d said. “You answered.”

“I did?” He wasn’t sure why he had, either. Max was lying at his feet, half asleep, but blinked back awake when he sat up.

“I was going to leave a message,” she said, “but this is actually perfect! Just wanted to check in.”

He stalled. His heart gave an uneven _th-thump_. “… you wanted to-to check in…” He was holding a screwdriver and he put it down, his face softening into something of disbelief.  “On me?”

“Of course! Just wanted to say thank you again. For last night. Cindy-Lou _can’t_ stop talking about it,” she laughed. “And just wanted to make sure I gave you enough leftovers.”

“You did.” He clutched at the sleigh. “Um… and thank you. For last night.” He realizes too late that he wasn’t supposed to have said thank you.

(and then realizes soon after that he hadn’t minded)

“Of course,” she said. “Anytime.” And she sounded so genuine, so honest, that his heart folded and twisted into all sorts of shapes and he had to hunch over to keep it from hurting. “We’ll see you soon!”

“Um. Sure.”

She hung up first and he was left holding the phone, staring at it. Max watched him. The Grinch tried to frown. “See,” he said to Max, and he put the phone down and picked up the screwdriver, turning back to the sleigh, rubbing his chest where it hurt-

(under skin)

(under bones)

(too deep to reach, but he tries anyway)

-“this is why we don’t deal with Who’s. They're like pests.  They try to invade your life.” He rubbed his chest again, but the ache stayed put.

Max wagged his tail.

“No. We do _not_ like that! Now grab me that screwdriver head. The tri-wing one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	4. In Which Cindy-Lou Finds a First Draft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cindy-Lou is confronted by friends, Grinch scopes out a small town, and Donna becomes a little hopeless. 
> 
> Max watches things change.
> 
> Documentaries are also watched.

**December 8th**

**(17 Days Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Cindy-Lou told (bragged to) her friends that he was over at her house and that she remained curseless when they stood outside Ozzy’s house, stacking snowballs into piles for Groopert’s new business plan. Making snowballs. Which he claimed was revolutionary, and had gathered them all together after school, raving about the millions they'd make. 

Which was a stretch. They’d made three dollars off lazy kids and since splitting that four ways was a pain he pocketed the money happily (a real sacrifice on his part).

After that venture was over for the day, he’d run to his backpack and grabbed the bottle of blue-raspberry syrup he kept there and crowed "NEW BUSINESS PLAN!", and they’d all eaten too many snow cones to count, their mouths sticky and sweet, their teeth bright blue.

They'd agreed the second plan was better. 

And it's there, eating snow cones and thinking hard about scarves and phone numbers and green men in mountains, that she decides to tell them.  

She hadn’t mentioned anything about it to the group since she’d found the scarf, and they’d all collectively lost their minds over it. It hasn’t seemed important.

They’d doubted her. And she’d done it. The improbable. The _impossible_. The  _infinitely impressive_!

She, Cindy-Lou, had gotten the Grinch into _her kitchen_ , and if she didn't tell them, she thought she might have exploded soon. 

And so halfway through her second snow cone, Cindy-Lou not-so-casually brought up Grinch.

It was meant to be a fun conversation. A show of bravery from the adventurous girl who lived on the house on a hill and had dared mess with the town recluse.

She just hadn’t expected their reactions.

“No,” she said, opening her arms wide and doing a turn, showing them her in all her uncursed state. “It’s _true_.”

“So he was in your kitchen?” Axel leaned on his knees. “He was in your house?”

“Yup!”

“In your _kitchen_ !” He licked syrup off his fingers. “No way.”  
  
“ _Really_!” Cindy-Lou grinned. “I sat next to him and met his dog and we ate spaghetti and everything!”

“You’re _lying_.”

“I’m not!”

“You can’t be serious.” Ozzy crossed his legs. He’d been forming a large snowball until she’d started talking. Now it sat in his hands, forgotten. He frowned. “That’s nuts. Even for you, that’s _nuts_.”

Cindy-Lou sniffed. “It’s _not_. I think it was pretty neat!”

Izzy squirmed, flexing her fingers in the snow at her sides. ”I… I dunno…”

“Well, it was. And I’m probably going to ask him to come over again. It was nice having someone else there!”

Her friends gaped, struggled for words, failed to find them.

Groopert had stayed mostly silent until then, growing more and more anxious the longer she’d talked. He reached out, then, and poked his best friends side, leaving a blue mark on her coat. “Um… Cindy-Lou?” She looked up at him, eyes daring him to challenge her. He swallowed. “It’s just- You have to be careful.”

”I’m fine, Groopert!”

“Just… just, please?” When he reached out and grabbed her hand, there was real worry on his face. “Please, be careful?”

She snorted. “I told you,” she insisted, breezily, snagging her hand away, “I’m _fine_.”

Her friends all gave one another looks.

“Actually,” said Ozzy, tossing a snowball from hand to hand, “we wanted to tell you something about that.”

“Guys-”

“It’s just…” Izzy held up her mittened hands, “you’re our _friend_. And… and we don’t want you to do something stupid just because you think you should!”

“C’mon!” Cindy-Lou laughed. “You guys know I’d never do something stupid!” They didn’t budge, their faces unchangingly skeptical. She frowned. “It’s just _dinner_. My mom was there any everything-”

“I know, I know,” Axel nodded. “We _get it_. But-”

“-But we’re worried,” Groopert finished, reaching out a hand to touch her arm. She drew back. “This might go too far, you know? And we don’t want you or- or your mom or your brothers to get hurt!”

“He wouldn’t hurt us!”

“You don’t know that!” Groopert scowled. “He’s the Grinch!”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t know him.”

“And you don’t either!” His gloved hands folded together, fidgeting and pulling at his fingers. “We’ve been talking and we don’t- I mean…” he looked at the others, who nodded. When he tried to look back at his best friend, though, he couldn’t, and his eyes found a little patch of dirty snow on the ground. “We want you to stop.”

Cindy-Lou stepped back. “What?”

This entire thing was beginning to snowball, and for once she couldn’t stop it.

“We want you to- to stop calling him and… and you can’t invite him over.” He did look up then, and despite how hard he tried to make his face look, his eyes betrayed him. She knew guilt when she saw it. “We-we need you to stop. Or we won’t… um…”

“Or we won’t hang out with you anymore,” said Axel. But even he was looking a little less sure of himself.

They all did.

Cindy-Lou took another step back, shoving her hands into her pockets. “You can’t be serious.”

“We just don’t want you to get hurt!” Groopert blurted. “And we can’t play with someone who’s cursed or hurt or- or _gone_! And what if… what if he takes you to his cave and eats you or something!”

She stuck out her tongue. “Why would he _eat_ me.”

He raised his arms with a huff, fingers splayed. “I don’t know! But he might!”

“He eats spaghetti! He doesn’t eat people.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do, too!” She almost wanted to stomp her foot, but held back. That wouldn’t win her any arguments.

Groopert crossed his arms. His sticky blue fingers left prints on his jacket. “Promise us,” he said.

“Promise you _what_.”

“Promise us,” said Ozzy from behind, wiping blue stains off her own mouth, “that you won't call him again.”

“That’s so dumb!”

“No it’s not,” said Izzie. “Because what if he comes after _us_ , too!”

“That’s stupid!” She got up, wiping snow off her pants. “And I don’t want to stop calling him because-”

Whatever she was about to say was bitten off by Groopert’s desperate plead of, “ _Promise_ .” He reached for her again, but she drew back before he could. He tucked his hands to his chest. The other watched them, silent and worried. “Come _on_ , Cindy-Lou. I know… I know you want to change the world or whatever, but can you just… can’t you just change something that isn’t _impossible_?”

There was an unfamiliar anger peeking out from inside her. A cruel, awful dark thing that made her want to scream and shout and tell them they were wrong. Didn't they know she had plans? That Santa Claus needed help and  _she_ was the one to do it? Couldn't they understand just as deeply and terribly as she did?

She took a deep breath and held it. The feeling wound through her- against her arms and legs and chest, but its hold loosened at least a little when Cindy-Lou closed her eyes and blew out. 

Despite what they thought, they cared. Cared about her. 

And maybe this was the only way they knew how to do it. 

They still believed in monsters. In bones-carved doors and evil green men hiding behind them. 

(She presses away the reality that, yeah, she might still believe too. So much of her childhood was based on that lore. And that stuff sticks with you like old taffy.

And yet, the longer she thinks about scarves and sad men, the harder it becomes to keep those truths alive.)

Still, the dark feeling curled through her, twisting with foul promises -  _we'll be back_ \- and she shoved that down deep as she could, swallowing away the awful sadness that came with knowing you were about to do something not-so-great. 

So she nodded, anger deflating. “Okay,” she said and watched their faces fall into relief with a heavy tug of her own guilt. “Okay. I won’t.”

Lying makes her feel all types of sick. 

But there’s little else she could do. Not when Santa needed all her help before he could chip in. Not when something was actually changing, even if she wasn’t sure what that change was. But it was something. And it was happening.

And so she promised and went back to making snow cones.

* * *

But nothing stops her from calling the Grinch again.

Especially while she’s sitting next to her mother on the couch during movie night and Donna casually mentioned that she swore she saw Grinch on the mountain today with his dog (she had; he’d been standing there with his telescope and hadn’t seen her wave), and Cindy had run off to grab the phone and call him before her mother could protest.

He picked up on the second ring. “What?” He sounded cautious. Careful.

“We’re watching a documentary,” she told him.

“… so?”

“So, it’s about saltwater fish.” It was movie night. Which was always fun. And, being Cindy-Lou's turn to pick, she'd forgone her usual action flick and looked up  _science_  instead and clicked on the first documentary that looked interesting. Buster and Bean were still up, having refused to go to sleep, and had their faces almost pressed to the screen, watching the little fish swim. The narrator said something about warm climates and beautiful camouflage. “Anyway, we weren’t sure what you were doing and it’s still pretty light outside if you wanted to walk and we made _so much popcorn_ and-”

He coughed and grumbled, “I’m busy.” He paused. When he spoke again, his voice was tight. “You know I have actual work to do, right?”

“I know. You’ve got a lab! Which is super cool!”

“And I’m _using_ that lab.”

A fish lunged at another, smaller fish, attacking it. Buster squealed and fell onto his back.“To do what?”

“For- for, um… nothing.”

“Okay. So do something and turn to channel thirty five! You can watch with us from there.” Next to her Donna snorted and gave her a look. Cindy-Lou amended her command with “Sorry. I mean, if you wanted to?”

“I’m absolutely not doing that,” he grouched. “Go away.” And he hung up on her.

Cindy-Lou looked disappointed, but shrugged and put the phone to the side with a sigh. “Sorry, honey,” said Donna, reaching out to tuck loose hair behind her daughter’s ear, looking away from the clownfish that was hiding inside an anemone. “You sort of knew that wouldn’t work, right?”

She tucked her chin to her knees. “I just sort of hoped?”

“I know.”

Donna hopes too. But she’s been through enough in life (things Cindy-Lou is too young, too hopeful, too wonderful to understand) and she’s been hardened enough to crack. Thinks it a real wonder she hasn't yet. 

She knows when to begin to see an end.

Or maybe she doesn’t. But still. She knows enough to realize that there _could_ be an end. And in this case... the end, she felt, was near. 

The other night he’d been in their kitchen because of a scarf. So unless her daughter had another one of those up her sleeve, she wasn’t sure how much of a chance they had to drag the grump of Mt. Crumpet Lane down from his forbidden cave. 

“Honey,” she says carefully (oh so carefully, for her daughter is made of sunshine and she’s not prepared to snuff her glow), “just… don’t be disappointed if this _doesn’t_ work out.”

“He will,” said Cindy-Lou.

“But he might _not_. And you might have to let this one go.”

“But I don’t _want_ to stop calling him.” Cindy-Lou jerked her head up, hair falling from behind her ear back in front of her face. “Because I think something's changing!”

“I _know_ you do, honey-”

“And you do, too!”

“I do,” Donna said, and she’s being honest. “I really, really do. And I’m so, so happy that you took that chance but…” Her daughters face fell, searching for some sort of endless support hung just on the edge of her mother's resolve. “Sweetheart. You have to remember, no matter what you do-” She struggled to find the words. “No matter what you do, you’re still dealing with someone who’s been alone for a very, _very_ long time. For a reason.” Cindy-Lou started to move forward, ready to launch into something, but Donna stopped her with a waved hand. “I told you to try. And I’ll keep telling you to try, sweetheart. But you have to know when you’ve tried enough. He doesn’t want anyone.”

“Yes,” her daughter insisted, almost too patiently for her age. “He _does_.”

“Cindy-Lou-”

“Just trust me, mom?” She scooted forward on the couch. Huge eyes watched Donna, searching for anything. Disbelief, maybe. Confidence. Trust. “ _Please_?”

Donna does trust in her child. Believes in her spirit and light and innate goodness.

She also believes that those things were going to be what toppled her.

“Please, mom?” Cindy-Lou asked again, leaning on her mother's legs and dragging her back from her twirling thoughts.

“Honey, all I’m saying-”

“I know, I know, but- let me keep trying, okay? I promise; something goods gonna happen!”

She doesn’t know if her daughters right. If it’ll be something good or bad. If it’s a promise that can be kept, or broken, or just a childish statement. But on the flip side of that, her daughters plan hadn’t done anything yet, really. They hadn’t been antagonized by a green mountain man. They hadn’t been rewarded generously by him, either.

They’d gotten little more than an extra dinner companion.

Her daughters kindness had so far only given them mundanity.

And for now, that’s fine. Neutral was _fine_.

“Okay,” she said, and Cindy-Lou fell forward to hug her mom. “But this gets too out of hand-" she dragged her hand across her neck, "we pull the plug.”

She got another squeeze for that before her daughter pulled away. “Roger that,” Cindy-Lou saluted before settling back to watch an eel wiggle around and snap at stray fish. Buster slapped the screen to try and save the fish. Bean cheered his twin on by sticking his foot into his brothers face.

“Bean,” Cindy-Lou slipped off the couch before her mom could. “Stop it!”

Donna sat back and watched and thought about trying. She doesn’t know how Cindy-Lou gets the energy to hope as fiercely as she does, but she does. And it amazed her endlessly.

(It also worries her, too.)

(She thinks about that part less.)

Donna nearly jumps out of her skin when the phone rang out of nowhere, and bites the inside of her cheek when she sees what name flashes on the screen. She says nothing. Her daughters beaming face speaks for them both. 

* * *

He'd been in the middle of designing a candy-cane sort of grabber. Something seasonal he could strap to his back to collect presents by the bundle. He'd had half the sketch out when, from far off in his workshop-

**_RING_ **

**_RING_ **

**_RING_ **

_-_  he bites off a vicious curse, pencil tearing through the blueprint paper in his surprise. He looked down mournfully at it, scowling back to the phone, still mocking him with every ring. 

"Why didn't I  _unplug that_ ," he snarls, hand hovering above the chord that ran from the phone to the outlet that lay against the blue stone. His fingers wiggled, reached, and then, with a soft sigh retracted. 

Max watched him far off. Watched as his face turned sad and shadowed before switching defiantly into the anger that he was so much more comfortable with before picking up the phone and snapping a cut off greeting that sounded less mean then he might have wanted. His knuckles were white. 

He knew who it would be. How could he  _not_ know who it would be? 

The brat from the village. Asking him about watching a movie with her family. "Bleh," he'd said to Max after he'd hung up on her. "What! Do they think I have all the time in the world to just... to just waste _on them_!" He was little more than a spectacle. An odd attraction to watch and poke at. Their entertainment. He waggled a finger Max's way. "I swear. They're onto me or... or something. They're trying to take me away from my work."  

Max yawned and Grinch stomped past him, grumbling about Who's and their dumb families before seating himself at the table, grabbing a new sheet of paper. He held out his pencil. 

And held it. 

Held it some more...

And continued to hold it, looking down at the paper, which looked right back at him. His face steadily began to drop, flickering with every emotion it could broadcast, until he finally threw down the pencil and got to his feet with a little whisper of "I swear..."  Max watched him march past again, pausing in front of the phone before picking it up and dialing. 

Cindy-Lou picked up almost right away. 

“Whats the channel number, again?” Grinch asked sourly. Cindy-Lou must have said something because Max could hear her happy voice, cheering on the other end. “I had nothing to do,” Grinch snapped her way, free hand held behind his back, fingers twitching. “Now are you going to give me the channel number or not.” 

He watched while he worked and definitely did _not_ enjoy the documentary on tropical fish.

(The clownfish was his favorite.)

* * *

**December 8th (9:55 pm)**

**(16 Days, 2 hours, and 6 minutes before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

During their bedtime her mother puts Cindy-Lou to bed, kisses her goodnight, and tells her that Christmas is just around the corner.

As if a kid would forget that.

“I’m just saying,” she says, “because if you want to get a letter to Santa, I’d start _soon_.”

Cindy-Lou nodded, dragging her covers up while her mother picked fallen stuffed animals off the floor and stacked them onto her bed.  “It’s just that… the thing I’m asking for is sort of hard to ask for?”

“Oh?”

She nodded, watching her mother. Her mother with her tired eyes, who was going to be starting her shift at work in just a few hours. Who would have to get up and start all over again with kids and smiling and pretending.

It doesn’t help that just outside her window she can see the little light from the Grinch’s cave.

She’s sandwiched by loneliness and it turns her stomach because, yeah, maybe she’s starting to realize she feels that way, too.

Donna didn’t know much about her daughters quandaries, but she leaned down and kissed her goodnight and said, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” And then Cindy-Lou was left alone as the house settled and the people within in followed along.

And it was on this night that Cindy-Lou finally wrote her draft of a letter to Santa Clause.

It’s just a list, really. A few ideas she’s formulated in her head. Plans that have yet to be created. She doesn’t know enough, yet. But she knows some things. And what she knows is quickly scribbled down on the back of a flier for the Christmas Caroling Contest that finished up the week before, left on her desk when she’d forgotten.

_Cindy-Lou’s Crazy List of Christmas Stuff or Whatever_

1) Her mother is afraid of something (everything) and is unhappy.

2) The Grinch needed a friend. Or more than one, really. And didn’t know how to ask for it.

3) She was lying to her friends. Lying to them about things that mattered. That they hated for some reason. And she didn't know why. But she knew she was lying, and that wasn't good, by Santa standards. 

She thinks a moment, and then adds an extra onto the latter.

3b) She’s lying to her mom, too. By not telling her about friends and promises she won't keep. Because they’re bad promises. Stupid, bad promises that won’t help anyone.

She sits at her little desk in her room, way after she’s supposed to be asleep, and tucks the list underneath a stack of school books. And then she drags out a bit of scrap paper she’d used for math equations. Underneath angles and variables she writes;

_Dear Santa,_

_I have been very good this year, and I’m deciding what I want to ask for. But some stuff has come up, and it’s going to take me a little bit of time. And I might lie a little, but you have to know that it’s definitely for the right reasons. I am about 98% sure that I have this thing under control. I’ll definitely let you know, soon. I have a wish for you, but I think I need to figure it out before I can send it._

_Keep on watching,_

_Cindy-Lou Who_

She gnaws on the end of her pencil and then adds, for good measure;

_P.S. if you saw me punch Andie at recess before Thanksgiving break that was totally because he was being a dingus and I don’t think I should receive points off for that. He said girls couldn’t play sports because they were dumb and weak. I proved my point by socking him in the eye. I’ll argue my case if you want. But honestly, you watch all us kids. You should know he’s an idiot-face at this point. I trust your judgement._

She tiptoes back to her bed from her desk after that, happy with her work, and looks out her window at the little dot of light from the Grinch.

First drafts are very important things when you’re changing lives.

* * *

 

**December 9th**

**(16 Days Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

His scarf still smells of lavender and he absolutely hates it.

It wouldn’t be so difficult if he didn’t live on a mountain, but the cutting chill makes heavier clothes sort of necessary, and so he’s stuck with lavender each time he puts it on. Which is, unfortunately, a lot.

Because in order to be Santa Claus, he needs to study the entire town.

And in order to study the town, he has to be outside.

And in order to be outside, he has to wear his stupid, awful, beloved scarf. That now _reeks_ of lavender.

“Great,” he mumbles to Max, wrapping the scarf around himself, wrinkles bunching above his nose when he takes in that smell again. “Did she _have_ to use lavender?” Max doesn’t listen, bounding out the door to tackle a snowflake. “I mean…” he stomped around some ice, treading down the long path on the side of the mountain towards the little iron gate just below, “there’s so many other things she could have done. Like… not touched it. Or not touched it. Or, hey! Here’s an idea! _Not touched it_.”

Max rolled over a few times, snuffling his nose into the snow and barked at a bird.

Grinch rolled his eyes and passed him. “And another thing,” he grouched, swinging open the gate. The iron was cold, and it made his hand tingle. “Her sewing job was appalling. Do you see this?” He extended it, as if to show Max (who was busy running ahead to chew on some ice he saw). “It’s _bunched_ . Her mother has _no_ tailoring skills at all.”

He huffed and threw the end of the scarf over his shoulder. Lavender hit him fast and he growled, stomping forward faster.

It was a beautiful day; a sky powdered with little puffs of cloud, the snow reflecting warmth off the sun. Ideal for sitting at the midpoint of the little path that lead to Whoville and scouting out the houses through his telescope.

He might have sent Max down, but he didn’t need that close of intel yet, and he was fine swinging his legs and pretending not to enjoy the weather.

Behind him, Max played in the snow, bristling at squirrels and yipping at the occasional kids he saw far below (who couldn’t hear him but hey- worth a try).

“Max,” huffed Grinch, squinting through his telescope, dragging it over the town. “Could you be any _louder_?”

Apparently he could when a goat galloped by and Grinch nearly snapped at him, but held back.

Instead he looked at the town, estimating house numbers, looking over streets and routes. There were some clear ideas forming. The towns structure moved upwards like a conch shell, and deciding which direction to follow was hard enough. But it seemed smartest to start with the thickest bunch at the bottom before moving to the peak.

They stay out for a long while, until the sky begins to caramelize into pinks and dark purples, and the lights below begin to beam. 

His telescope lens followed the path he'd decided was best, tracking the little roads that spiraled round and round. First they’d work the Southern quadrant just below his mountain. And then the East Side. Then the Northern neighborhood, moving to West.

“That sounds good, right?” he asked Max, who jumped next to him to paw at an acorn, his shadow long in the dusk. “Easy! We only have six hours to do this, though. But we can, if we really work at it. And with my genius and your… Maxness, we can pull it off, I’m sure.”

Whoville was a tiny community. But even so- that seemed tight.

He stood up and brushed off the snow from the backs of his legs. “So it’ll work like this,” he said to Max while he began to walk back up, stopping every few moments to point and explain. “We go from there,” and he pointed to some Who’s house -a small green home with blue shutters and a white picket fence- and we work our way up to… um- to…”

Max, who was about to hunt a leaf, stopped what he was doing to look up.

Grinch had suddenly gone very quiet and very, very still.

His hand was extended, still pointing towards Whoville, right to the very, very top of it. The furthest point above all the other houses where a little home sat, unassuming, watching them back with cheerful, open windows, and a bright red door.

“Oh- said Grinch, shoulders pulling forward, looking smaller. “I- ah.”

Max squinted. Looked far off at the offending house that had done this to his Grinch and saw-

(warmth)

(elbows)

(lavender)

-that it was Cindy-Lou’s.

Grinch swallowed, hand coming up to his chest to tug at his scarf. A burst of lavender surrounded him and he frowned, picking at the knitting. He unwound it fast, bundling it in his arms and away from his face before he turned away. “Um," he stutters, staring hard at the snow, refusing to look out. "I think we got everything,” he said stiffly. “We can figure out numbers tomorrow. I’ll write down a route or- or something.”

He motions Max along, and his dog doesn’t miss the looks he casts towards the top of the town every few seconds.

Doesn’t miss how he quickly looks away.

* * *

Max expects breaking, because it always returns. Always. His Grinch is full of broken parts. They rattle round him, chipping and filing away into little, smooth nothings, like boulders turning to sand.

And lately there’s less and less he can do. And so he watches and waits and stays by his Grinch’s side in case (when; perhaps the right word was _when_ ) he fell too far below. Waits in case ( _when_ ) he’s dragged deep below. Waits in case ( _when, when, when_ ) he’s gone for good.

It frightens Max. More than any other year. Because this is the year that the lab is filling with plans and blueprints and experiments, and his Grinch’s reality is snapping in two.

Max hopes he still belongs to one of those realities. It’ll make it easier to find him if ( _when_ ) he vanishes.

But despite everything-

(the anguish)

(the pain)

(the memories buried away and churning dark)

-something had begun to change and Max, trotting along beside his Grinch up through the small banks of snow and ice, can’t quite decide what it was. But it was something.

Something to do with that warm house with its kind windows and red door.

“We can do this,” his Grinch was saying. He was tugging at his scarf, fiddling with the ends. “We just need to stay focused.” He didn't look back towards the town. Refused to look back towards the town. 

Max tilted his head, staring while his Grinch frowned at his feet, muttering things about _confidence being key_ , every so often looking up to grin too-wide at his dog. “You see them?” He gestured to the town below without looking, framed by the dark blue oncoming night and always looming mountain range that, in the dark, has become little more than sharp smudges. “They’ll get what’s coming to them. They’ll see what they did.”

Max jumped over some netted weeds stuck up from the snow.

“It’s going to help me. _Us_. And once this is over? Things are going to be better and easier. One night and… presto.” He snapped his fingers. “We’ll move forward. Right, boy?”

Max couldn’t do much besides let out a huff of breath and continued to watch.

Watched for the difference behind the awful breaking. The change. The something that he couldn’t quite catch, but knew was there.

“Things will be better,” the Grinch keeps telling him until its little more than a desperate mutter said over the crunch of snow. “Things _will be better_.”

Max nipped at his heels until the Grinch blinked himself out of his trance of _better_ and smiled at Max, reaching down to pet his back. The gate was in sight and Max ran ahead to nudge it open. “Thanks boy,” said Grinch stepping through, moving up towards the door. “Whats say we have a snack, huh?”

Overeating was what his Grinch was most likely going to do. He could tell by the twisting of his long fingers into the scarf he now held, squeezing it too tight. But Max can always go for a snack, and so he barks and gallops forward, past the DO NOT DISTURB and TURN BACK NOW signs, up towards their front door.

When they arrive, Grinch nearly turns. Nearly looks down at the town. 

But he slams the door hard behind them and keeps his eyes forward. 

It won’t be until later when he’ll figure it out. When he’s finally able to distract him enough to just have dinner instead of emotionally eating everything in his kitchen. Barking every time Grinch reaches for a pastry or a bag of chips (though Grinch snarks right back about stupid, judgy dogs).

He sees it, then. After he’s been fed, watching Grinch from over his food bowl. Watches him open the fridge and look for dinner.

He doesn’t pull out a can of Who Hash. And he doesn’t search through their freezer for a microwaved meal.

Instead, he pulls a Tupperware container from a shelf.

For a moment, he holds it, standing there in the kitchen, staring at the clear container with its blue cap. Thoughtfully, perhaps. 

Or maybe...

(hopefully)

(gratefully)

(warmly)

... something different. 

“Huh,” says Grinch, looking up at Max, munching through his own food. “I should probably call and…” But whatever he was going to say gets cut off by his own shaken head, and he dismisses the thought quickly, shoving the container into the microwave and watching it spin, gripping the counter hard.

But Max had seen it. 

And despite every _when_ , there was something new. And when Max follows him to the lab that night, watching him while he picks up tools, he thinks that for once the change might be something good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	5. In Which Cindy-Lou Finds a Text

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grinch paints houses, Donna's sink explodes, and Cindy-Lou learns the benefits of texting. 
> 
> The heat also turns off.

**December 10th**

**(15 Days Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

It takes him hours, but the base of his little village is finished in all its hilly glory, and if anyone asked he would say that he didn't think creating an exact replica of Whoville was at _all_ a waste of time, thank you very much.

Max is called down with coffee to the lab instead of Grinch’s bedroom, where Grinch is hunched over a huge table covered in tiny houses.

“See?” says Grinch, gesturing. His eyes are twitching and he grabs for the coffee on Max’s head. Max considers cutting him off, but his Grinch is too quick and nabs it before he can. “I stayed up _all night_ and- and- and _viola!_ ” He stuck out his palms and did a little jazz hands. “Every building! Every road! Marked and ready.” He pointed to the corner of the lab, where a bundle of red string lay. “Then later, we’ll plan it all! Where and when and- _good coffee,_ Max, but less milk next time!”

Early in the morning Grinch had taken his coffee into a to-go mug and wandered down the mountain to the halfway point with Max at his heels. It was cloudier than the day before, but it was still light enough to take a few pictures with one of his cameras. And so he snapped a few, making sure to also send a drone to get pictures of the opposite side (he thought about sending Max, but it seemed too dangerous and threw that idea away, much to Max's relief).

When the sun had risen, burning off the morning fog, he’d wandered back up to his house and set himself up in his lab with printouts of the town clipped and tacked to the walls, and began to create a little replica. 

For the houses, he used folded bits of cardboard, and it barely took him two hours to make enough of them for every single tiny home.

The trees were a little harder, but doable, and he twisted together pipe-cleaners and dusted everything with some flour for snow.

He thinks, looking at his set-up, that he could have definitely been an art teacher in a former life.

A really mean, awful art teacher. With a coffee addiction.

“See?” he says again to Max, showing off the arrays of little homes he had half created, pushing the finished ones to the right side to get ready for painting, “This is better than sending you out in a drone!”

Max wasn’t sure if this was a good idea, but better than a drone was a definite, and so he abided.

He took a break to make a sandwich at noon, and then he and Max sat in the lab while he painted each little house, looking at the pictures for reference. “Okay…” he said between bites of ham and cheese, “so… house number forty-seven has orange shutters and a green door… and house forty-three- _don’t look at me like that, Max!_ Accuracy is _important!_ ”

Max heaved a sigh and lay on his paws.

He uncapped cans of paint, setting them around, mixing and matching them on a paper plate.

By two pm he’d finished fifty.

By three, that number had gone up to sixty-five.

His fur was clumped with paint and cardboard shavings, and his fingers were cramping from holding a paintbrush and stubbornly adding every little detail, and his eyes were beginning to ache from staring for too long. The entire project was leading to a sour mood.

And it was then, toasting in his own boredom and thick headedness, that the phone-

**_RING_ **

**_RING_ **

**_RING_ **

-shouted at him.

He threw down his paintbrush and rubbed his sore eyes. Paint dragged across his forehead. “ _Seriously_!” Frowning behind him at the phone he wiped paint off his hands (or smeared it deeper) and stomped towards the phone.

“I’m so sorry,” are the first words he hears before he’s able to blurt out _stop calling my number!_ , and so he blinks and stutters and flops on the mean act before it began. Donna didn’t even realize he’d had plans to be mean because she continued, “I _know_ you’re probably busy. But Cindy-Lou ran all the way home and - _honey, take off your boots, you’re tracking mud_ \- and she said she had to talk to you and there’s really no stopping her so-” In the background he could hear a child's plea of _mom give me the phone!_

He’s in the midst of saying “ _no_!” but it’s too late for that, and there’s a rustling when the phones taken, and suddenly he’s trapped in a corner of conversation he can’t get out of.

“So you were right,” Cindy-Lou grabs the phone, bursting right into her story. Her breath came out in pants through her words, and she took a second to catch her breath. She must have sprinted up the hill. “I went into science class, and everyone else was still super behind, but then I told my partner about your whole thing! About using a con- _cone_ -um-”

His shoulders began to lower, relaxing

“A conduit?”

“ _Yes! That!_ It worked. Mr. Grinch, it really, really worked! And you know what my teacher said? He said,” and she deepened her voice and intoned, “' _Cindy-Lou, that was an incredibly smart idea you had there- top notch work, young lady_.’ Can you even believe that!” And she laughed, open and bright, and he smiled despite himself, arms wrapped round to rest on his middle.

“That’s… uh- that’s great.”

“You have to show me more tricks!” She was finally catching her breath, and he could hear her walking through the house. She must have gotten something to eat, because there was munching in his ear. “I can’t _wait_ until the next science class. It’s my (crunch crunch crunch) _favorite_ besides math, and my friends all hate math-”

“Um- I-” His fists moved to hold the phone tight.

“All my friends like history and reading, and I do love reading! I really, really do! But science is more cool.”

Grinch’s eyes were growing wider. He was feeling his insides go rigid. What was he supposed to say? Supposed to do?

He was back at that dinner table, silent until spoken to, except now it was just him and Cindy-Lou and she was expecting a conversation and the simplest thing in the world was turning him wildly small and terribly afraid, and he was _this close_ from just pressing end and catching his breath before collapsing on the floor when Donna Who saved him. Again.

“Cindy-Lou,” he heard her say in the background, “give the man a _break_!”

“Oh, right. Sorry, Mr. Grinch!”

He exhaled. His nerves had been firing, but they started to settle. He breathed out. “S’alright,” he said. He began to move back towards the table, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder when he sat down and picked up a house again.

This one had yellow shutters and a purple roof and a bright pink door. He started painting again, listening to her babble about little things on the other end.

Right when he’s done adding final touches to the pink door, Cindy said, “So are you coming to dinner again?”

The question caught him off guard, and he nearly dropped his paintbrush. A drop of paint fell on his wrist, glinting blue. “Uh-”

“You didn’t come to movie night when I asked, and we made _so much popcorn_ because I thought you’d be there, which was my mistake. But also sort of yours, too. We had to throw out so much popcorn because you didn’t come down, and honestly, that’s on you, dude. And anyway, tonight we’re making hot dogs and if you’re going to come down you have to let me know now, so my mom can make-”

“I’m busy.” He finally gained control of his voice enough to snap at her, almost instantly regretting it when she went silent.

 _Mean_ , he reminded himself. His stomach turned. _You’re mean_.

He swallowed back a confusing, terrible apology, chanting little reminders about his horribleness in his mind until Cindy-Lou chirped, “alright!” and sounded as fine and patient as if he’d politely declined.

Somehow that was worse.

* * *

 It takes him four more hours to finish all the houses, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s saved one for last.

The little three story home with the big windows and the red door. It sat, unpainted, alone on the left side.

When he picked it up, it felt heavier than the rest had. He blamed it on tired fingers, cradling the little thing between his palms.

"Last one," he tells Max, dragging bristles in paint. His paintbrush hovered, uncertain, twisting the house around a few times. The picture was on the wall and he looked at it for reference again. Stared at it. Hated that the image gave little justice to the way the house had smelled, sounded, felt when he'd stepped through...

He shook his head, frowning. The white model was waiting for color. And so he gave it that.

Painting it quickly, trying to treat it as clinically as he could, his mind wandered anyway to warmth and gentle voices. To scarves. To lavender that didn't leave. His hand tightened around the little sculpture, and it creaked and groaned in his fist, watching himself paint and paint until everything on the house was finished-

-except the door. 

Holding the little model of Cindy-Lou’s home in his hand, dipping the paintbrush into the red pot, he carefully created something he knew well. The portal to their little home bloomed into view with the final few strokes, and the same warmth from kind eyes and small tables and cramped kitchens overwhelmed him and he didn’t mean to (truly, truly didn’t mean to) when the house slipped from his hand and tumbled to the floor when his chest gave a vicious **_BA-BUMP_ **.

“AH!” He lurched forward, holding his chest and wheezing through his breaths.

( _Ba-Bump_ ) his chest groaned, and he hissed.

Max had pounced up and bounded over, whining and yipping, and he clumsily pat his head a few times to get him to back away. “Fine, Max,” he ground out. “‘m… fine.”

He breathed in deep, waiting for the feeling to pass. And it did, eventually, leaving him a little sore and a little hollow.

The hollow feeling grew when he looked down and saw Cindy-Lou’s house shattered at his feet. He worked on collecting the pieces, ignoring the feeling of tightness in his chest; like being scooped out from the inside.

He knows he’ll have to do her house again.

But that night he finds he can’t. No matter how many times he tries.

* * *

 He hesitates over the phone only once right before dinnertime. 

(He looks)

(He breathes)

(He shudders - he closes - he shrinks)

He walks away. 

* * *

  **December 11th**

**(14 Days Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Cindy-Lou knew things would begin to change. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew. There’d been a letting go. A tightened grip beginning to let its hold release. Something was happening. And she told her mom that over breakfast that morning. The school was closed for a teacher conference, and she was glad to stay home and help out. Maybe go see her friends later.

Thinking on her plan to help her mother (and subsequently, a green grump) was an added bonus.  

“I swear, mom,” she says. “I really, really swear!”

“I believe you!” Her mom ran around the kitchen, taking gulps of coffee between making the twins’ breakfast. Cindy-Lou helped where she could, mopping oatmeal from a failed meal off the table. “But honey, remember-”

“I know, I know…” She got off her chair, holding the napkin full of cold oatmeal in her hands. It felt clumpy and alive. She dumped it into the trash and wiggled the gross feeling off her fingers. “We can’t change someone who doesn’t want to change.”

“And?”

“And I shouldn’t get my hopes up.”

“ _And_ -”

“And there’s plenty other people out there who need help?”

“And?”

“And… I don’t know, mom!”

Her mom laughed, handing the twins toast smeared with butter and cinnamon sugar. They leapt at it like rabid dogs. “I don’t know. Just trying to make you squirm.”

“Mom!”

They laughed together, and the tense feeling of morning began to lighten. Her mom finally was able to sit down, and drank the rest of her coffee. Cindy-Lou shoveled eggs into her mouth and sang songs to Buster and Bean, who slapped their hands on the high chair in tune (almost).

It was turning out to be a good day. A really, really good day.

And then, like most good days, it ended with their backed up sink exploding like a geyser.

* * *

It was an odd thing to be wanted for dinner.

It was even odder to be wanted for talent.

But when his phone rang and he answered, he didn’t expect that to be the subject of the call.

“Hi, Mr. Grinch!” Cindy-Lou was shouting over a loud noise, like a roaring wind, and he has to hold the phone away from his ear. “My mom wanted me to call a plumber but I said you might be better! Can you hear us?”

“ _Yeah_.” He flinched away when the noise turned from a bellow into a screech. “What’s the noise?”

“The sink,” shouted Cindy-Lou. “Here!” There was a click. “You’re on speaker! Mom- Mr. Grinch is here!”

“Mr. Grinch!” Donna sounded like she was walking the edge of stress and losing the balancing act. “Thank goodness. Do you know how to stop a sink from - _Cindy-Lou grab that towel!_ \- from shooting at me!” In the background he could also hear two other kids screaming and giggling and splashing. “The sink was backed up and I tried to plunge it and now it’s going _crazy_!”

“It sounds like you had a bad blockage- it might still be in there!” He stood up, pacing, thinking through his encyclopedia of home repairs he’d accumulated in his head. “Do you know where the valve is? Can you turn off the water?”

“Uh- I’m not sure!”

“Look for- can you get under your sink? Look for the little knob! When was your sink built?” He shook his head. “Nevermind- give your daughter the- _oh, hi!_ You’re going to have to turn the water off! No! Don’t worry! I’ll tell you how!”

He directed her through the process. It took eleven minutes for the child to figure it out, but finally the water was off and he’d given Donna a few different ways she could clear it. Donna took back the phone, laughed, and wiped her hands off on her jeans. “Thanks so much. It’s good to know someone who actually _knows_ what they're doing!”

“No problem.”

“Next you’ll be telling me you can fix my flickering lights, too!”

“Flickering lights?” He’d tilted his head. “What sort of light?”

It turns out he _could_ fix her flickering lights. And his day was spent pacing round the couch, teaching her the very basics of fire safety and home upkeep.

* * *

  **December 12th**

**(13 Days Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

He totally did not mean to give Cindy-Lou his cell phone number, but he did. Because Donna gave him hers and said “for neighbor emergencies” and he rattled off his own just in case the sink backed up again or the shower broke or something, and the next day, in the midst of adding paint to the candy canes, he got his first text.

 **UNKNOWN:** Hey- knock knock.

 **UNKNOWN:** You have to say who’s there.

He squinted down at the phone and frowned. _Who is this_ , he typed. Then, for good measure, _go away_.  

 **UNKNOWN:** That’s not right!

 **UNKNOWN:** It’s who’s there.

 **UNKNOWN:** Also, this is Cindy-Lou. Hi! :D

He snorted and typed in her name. _How do you have a cell phone. You’re too young._

 **CINDY-LOU:** It’s my moms.

He fixed the name. _Isn’t it supposed to be for emergencies only?_

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** This is a knock-knock joke. It _is_ an emergency.

He'd been adding the finishing touches on some of his tools for the final day, but now he's seeing red and white everywhere when he blinks, which probably isn't good. He put down his tools and leaned against the work table. _Fine_ , he wrote. _Who’s there_.

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** Robin.

 **GRINCH:** Robin who.

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** Robin _you_ , now hand over your money!

He really doesn’t mean to laugh. But he accidentally snorts, quickly catching himself and biting back the rest before it can come out. The smile is harder to hide.

 **GRINCH:** That’s awful.

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** No it’s not!

 **GRINCH:** Is your mom there?

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** She’s cooking so she gave me the phone. She says hi.

 **GRINCH:** Well tell her that you’re terrible at jokes.

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** Like you know any good ones!

 **GRINCH:** I know plenty good ones.

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** Prove it!

He couldn’t think of any, he realized. So he said _I’ll tell you later_.

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** Told you you didn’t know any.

He should have been working on his plans, but he spent the next hour looking for jokes on his phone instead.

* * *

She texts him three more times that day. 

First, at lunch, he got a notification. 

 **** **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** Did you find any jokes yet?

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** Or are you admitting defeat already!

He didn't answer, setting the phone down to make a sandwich. Max watched him carefully and caught all the crumbs he dropped. 

He pretends it isn't because he's got basically no sense of humor and never has, and now he's feeling awful about that because jokes basically evade him and most of his are mean. 

The girl might not appreciate snide sarcasm as a form of wit. 

After lunch, he got another text while he washed the dishes. 

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** My mom has one for you!

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** Why was the strawberry crying?

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** Helloooooo?

He groaned, flicking water off his hands and wiping them on his legs. He picked up his phone and typed back,

 **GRINCH:** Go away.

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** That's not what you're supposed to say!

 ** **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:**** You have to say 'why'!

Grinch didn't mean to smile. But he did anyway, his mouth moving up on its own. He leaned on the counter, Max tunneling under the table to lick at leftovers. 

 **GRINCH:** Okay. Why. 

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** Because his mom was in a jam. 

He laughed, and Max's head popped up, staring at him before he went back to licking rouge turkey off the tiles. 

 **GRINCH:** Good one.

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** I know!

 ** **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:**** That's mom's favorite.

He went back and looked up more jokes. He'd only found a few in the hours he'd spent (wasted) online, and all of them were so bad that they made his stomach churn. They were dumb. Stupid jokes. Not smart or interesting- and if he used them they'd think _he_ was stupid. 

He sucked in a breath and remembered one that had sort of made him (definitely) laugh, and took a chance. 

Might as well make them think he was dumb now. 

GRINCH: What do you call a pony with a cough?

He waited, holding his breath while she took her time responding. 

He knew it. 

He knew it was stupid. 

Knew he was too smart for this. It had been a trap this whole time. For them to test him, to make him seem as awful and stupid as they thought. How could he have even tried to be a part of-

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** What!

He let out a breath, and his thudding heart slowed. 

 **GRINCH:** A little horse. 

There was another anxiety spiking moment before she texted back. 

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** So you do know good jokes!

 ****CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:**** We laughed!

 ******CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:****** Good one!

 ** ******He didn't mean to smile again, but the rest of the afternoon he goes round with one on his face. And it only grows later on that night when he gets his final text, sometime just before dinner. When the microwave is beeping and he's peeling the plastic back on his pathetic meal for one, moving towards the dining room, his phone buzzes.

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** [send an attachment]

When he opened it, he saw a picture of an empty chair. 

 **CINDY-LOU AND DONNA:** We're leaving this out for you, whenever you want to come back!

He and Max had been on their way towards the dining room and he stopped, looking at the phone in his hand. In front of him was the long dining room table and the vaulted ceiling. It was a huge room. A foreboding room.

It had been kept for its importance. The hope that one day he'd fit well inside its enormous size. But it had only served to make him feel smaller and smaller as the years had gone by.

And maybe that's why he'd kept using it.

Because smaller and smaller was what he deserved.

Because maybe if it crushed him, he'd fit. He'd carbonize. He'd finally feel less broken. 

But now he looks at the picture and the text and turned around and went back to the kitchen instead. "Come on, Max," he called behind him, and the dog followed along, tilting his head. "Change of plans!"

That night they sit at the small kitchen table in the coldish kitchen. 

It's different. 

But he likes it. 

* * *

**December 13th (3:35 am)**

**(11 Days, 20 Hours, and 25 Minutes Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

It is sometime during this night that Donna Lou's household bursts into disuse. 

It was bound to happen. They weren't rich, by any means, and it was hard ever since her husband had...

(the thought of it still makes her hands curl, makes bile rise, makes anger curl comforting hands around her until she wants to scream)

... but for what they were, they were fine. She paid their bills and managed the house and worked until she was worn, but she did what she could, and what she could do was enough. 

Just enough. 

And with the holidays coming around the corner, she had been hopeful for little to no breaks in the cycle of  _enough_. 

And then their heat, in the middle of the night, spluttered to a halt and left her and her family in the dark cold of a winter morning. 

* * *

 

**December 13th (6:44 am)**

**(11 Days, 17 Hours, and 16 Minutes Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Donna woke up to a frozen house, crying twins, and a wonderfully patient daughter trying to calm her baby brothers down. Their heat had probably overdone itself over the night.

It was still early. Beyond the windows was little more than dark sky and deep snow. She pressed her fingers against her temples and counted her breaths. Her paycheck wouldn’t be coming in until next week, which meant that whatever repairs they’d need would either mean waiting in the freezing cold, or dipping into savings.

There were only so many things she could handle during the month of December. Gift buying was something all its own. And then there was the wrapping, and the late night schedules, and the crazy work hours, and six-year-old child who was playing mother when she should have been out with her friends.

The twins gave another shrill scream and she smothered her worries as best she could with the robe that hung on the back of her door.

“Cindy-Lou?”

Down the hall her daughter poked her head around the doorway of the twins’ room. “Hi, mom!”

“Let me get them, sweetheart.” She opened the door the rest of the way, moving across the soft dark blue carpet, stepping over blocks and jumbo-legos. Cindy-Lou had already laid out their clothes.

“It’s fine! I don’t mind.”

“I know, honey, but you need to get dressed.”

Cindy-Lou watched her mom bend over Buster’s bed and pick up the whimpering child. Buster, in the bed on the opposite wall, reached up fat arms and flexed his fingers. “Mom, I can help you, really!”

“Honey-” She picks up Bean in her other arm, the two twins quieting, resting their heads on their mothers shoulders.

“I _like_ helping!” It wasn’t a total lie, and she took a step forward. Against the hallway light her mother looked exhausted. Sad. “Please?”

Donna smiled, but it did little to lighten her eyes. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs.” Instead of offering an answer, she offers a new question instead. “You want eggs?”

Cindy-Lou said yes. There wasn’t much else to do. So she let her mom make her eggs and watched the woman crumble.

The school bus would be there soon, and Cindy-Lou was ushered upstairs to get dressed.

She slid off the kitchen chair, watching her mother’s frantic dance around the kitchen. It was well choreographed, with flitting back and forth from station to station. But Cindy-Lou could see through the moments between; a breath here, a sigh there- hands twisting and leaning against the counter.

_You can do this._

_Hold it together._

_Just hang on_.

Cindy-Lou leaned on the doorway, watching as long as she could. There were still too many days until Christmas- Santa wouldn’t be able to help her mother until then. Until she’d sent out a letter or spoken to the jolly man in red.

Except-

She walked up the stairs slowly, thinking. She’d have to wait a few days for the man in red, sure. And if she played her cards right, maybe he could lend an all extending hand to her more-than-deserving mother.

But until then, there was an alternative on the grand Color Wheel of Helpful People that were a little more accessible than snail mail.

She got dressed quickly and slipped quietly down the stairs, borrowing her mother's phone from her purse. “Mom! I think my shoes are down by the dryer! I’m gonna go look!” She scampered to the basement before her mother could offer to help, hopping the steps two by two.

Beneath the first floor of the house it was colder, especially with the heat out, but at least she was out of her mothers range of hearing. She flipped open the phone, found the number she was looking for, and hopped foot to foot on the stinging cold floor, listening to each ring.

He answered just as her toes were turning blue and her teeth were beginning to chatter. “Hi, Mr. G-Grinch,” she stammered past the clouded air. “I know it’s early, and I’m super sorry! B-but there’s something I n-need to ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	6. In Which Cindy-Lue Finds Wires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grinch Fixes the heat, Cindy-Lue learns about wires, and Donna spirals away. 
> 
> (And there's a storm.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone! random authors note. i know i rarely do these, but the wonderful and lovely colacharm made the most gorgeous fanart for this story and i had to let y'all know!
> 
> check out their Tumblr! it's under the same name (colacharm) and you can see that piece as well as all of their other artwork! it's totally worth a look, trust me! 
> 
> NOW ONTO THE STORY!

**December 13th (7:38 a.m.)**

**(11 Days, 16 Hours, and 23 minutes Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Donna had just enough energy to walk Cindy-Lou to the stoop and watch her run down the hill, waving and yelling “BYE MOM” all the way to the bus stop. Once the bus had pulled away Donna asked her neighbors to take the little ones, explaining their current heating issue (or lack of it), and then she’d sat on the kitchen floor, head against the cold wall, and breathed in deep. She couldn’t cry. Not now. Not now when there was so much to do. But she’d felt like crying since Thanksgiving and it was becoming harder and harder to force that instinct down.

Holidays as a whole were hard.

She was a single mother. Raising three kids. Alone. Her sister lived cities away and her parents were retired and halfway across the country and there were awful and terrifying moments were the idea of just how alone she really was opened its maw and swallowed her up.

“Okay,” she told herself, breathing slowly out, staring at her feet on the linoleum, wiggling her toes to try and warm them up. “You can do this. Just get up, call the technician.” She could dip into savings. They could barely afford to this month. But they _could_ afford it. Money would be tight for a little while. But that was fine. They’d done it before. They’d do it again.

She stood on shaky legs and smoothed back her hair.

She didn't expect the knock at her door.

She was almost afraid that it was one of the neighbors, returning Buster and Bean to her with excuses about shopping trips or tantrums (the twins had some legendary ones) and did her best to set her face into something less despairing before she faced them

The face fell away into a new, startled one when she saw who was on the other side.

The Grinch who stood on her porch waved meekly at her. “Hi!” He had a tool belt around his waist and a dog at his side with a flashlight helmet strapped to his tiny head. “Cindy-Lou called earlier and said you needed some help with your heat?” He looked around her at the quiet house. “Where _is_ Cindy-Lou.”

His legs were covered with snow up to the shin. He’d walked all the way from the mountain to her house. For _heat_.

“Um... School?” She rubbed her face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even know she’d called you...”

“Oh-”

“She must’ve- ugh. That girl, I _swear_.” She pinched her nose. “I’ll talk to her later. She can’t just go around-”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Really! And I’m happy to help.”

“You don’t have to. I’m calling the technician.”

He shooed away her excuses with a flick of his fingers. “Cold houses don’t do anything for anyone. And better than your technician, probably.” He walked into her house without an invitation, smiling proudly and patting his belt with an alien amount of self-assuredness- glad to finally be given a task that involved what he was good at. “And besides,” he added. “This is _definitely_ a fire hazard.”

* * *

It had been a while since she’d actually spent time with another adult. And, Donna thought, moving to the basement to give him a cup of coffee, she’d missed it. She sat on the floor and watched him work. Max sat by his head with the flashlight fixed in place, and he lay on his back and fiddled with wires.

"There's a storm coming tonight," she told him, putting the coffee by his head and sitting on the cool floor. "We'll make sure you leave on time." She wound her arms around herself. "Must be why it's getting colder. Somethings gonna hit."

"Yeah," he said absently, looking up at the pannel full of wires. "I'll set an alarm or something..." 

She nodded. “You know, I forgot what it was like to spend time with someone who isn’t covered in crayon.”

He laughed, tilting his head up to look at her. “I don't believe that. You Who’s are out all the time. I can hear you from my house. There’s so much… noise.”

She shrugged. “Not mine.”

“Well, it’s someone’s.”

“It’s not _that_ bad.”

“It is if you’re me.”

“Well maybe if you came down once in a while...”

He didn’t answer that, and she wondered if she’d gone to far before he cleared his throat said, “maybe…?” He sounded so terrified at the concept, voice barely a squeak, that she laughed. He must have figured out that she wasn’t laughing at him, because he chuckled, and his shoulders relaxed a little.

She leaned forward, watching carefully while he twisted a dial. “Well, don’t feel too bad. If there are things going on, I haven’t been a part of them in years.” She thought back. “I’m pretty sure the last time I went out was before Cindy-Lou was born.”

“Sounds like the perfect life.”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “I dunno. Gets kind of lonely, I think.”

He hummed. The wrinkles on his brow folded and he turned quickly away. “Yeah…” he shook his head, and his fingers stilled on the wires. They started up again after he'd taken a deep breath, and she watched him tug at a red one, searching for the base.

“I mean. I have some friends. But they all have jobs. Jobs that aren't terrible hours."

He wiped his brow. "You're a nurse, right?"

"Yeah. Night shifts, mostly."

"Any gruesome stories?"

She snorted. "A few. I'll tell you later." He smiled an evil sort of smile, still fixed on the task at hand. "I dunno. I mean, I'd like to go out again, one day. It's fun. Or it used to be fun."

He hummed. "Didn't know it could change."

She huffed a laugh. "Yeah. It changes over time when things change. It used to be easier to do all that stuff before-" 

And she stopped.

The Grinch leaned up again, expecting her to finish her thought, but froze. Max turned, and the beam on his helmet hit her face. She flinched from the light, but it was too late. They’d all seen the crumbling of a fast but well homed emotion. “Mrs. Who?” He put his tools down and reached out, hand hesitating before he dropped it back to his side. “You… you alright?”

It was like waking from a dream when she jerked out of her own thoughts too fast and her hand hit the side of the cup and she just barely caught it before coffee splashed out onto the floor. She bit off a curse and shook the burn off her fingers. “Ah- sorry. I’ll get more.”

“You don’t have to-”

But she was already standing, picking up his mug and mumbling something about getting paper towels for the spill.

The stairs had never been harder to climb, and she took them fast as she could, jamming her toe on the last one and biting out a little yelp. She spent a moment in the middle of the kitchen, breathing, pressing her hand to her mouth, trying to ignore the way her hands shook.

(in and out)

(in and out)

(in and in and in and in and out)

Her house was full of well pressed memories and she’d been content to leave them that way. Hidden and flattened and dry.

She hadn’t thought about these things in a while. About people that left. Husbands that walked out while it was still dark and children didn't understand the permanence of shut doors. About excuses and promises and  _I just can't do this anymore_ 's. 

She’d been doing so well with forgetting. Had been happy to forget and cram those things away. 

Apparently, her thoughts hadn’t agreed to that arrangement. Because they were oozing out from under the floorboards and through the cracks and from around the mantle. The weight on her shoulders grows and expands and breathes and growls and sinks its talons into her skin.

She closed her eyes.

_You can do this._

_Hold it together._

_Just hang on_.

There was an unfairness to it all, and the anger that fumbles up is a part of that. It isn't his fault for asking, and it isn't her fault for answering. 

But the happiness from dinner tables and phone calls and smiling children-

(in and out)

was dredging up pasts like bodies from a swamp

(in and out)

and she hates it

(in and out)

she hates it

(in and out)

-she hates it so much.

When she went back down to Grinch with a fresh cup of coffee, she was the picture of a perfect mother again. “Sorry,” she said, handing him the mug with a shrug. “You know how holiday stress can be.” She pointed up the stairs and said, lamely, “I’ll leave you to it.”

He won’t miss the lines around her face before she goes. They’re too old a friend of his to forget. But he at least knows enough about social rules not to mention it.

Still. He knows. 

Donna Who is sad.

And Grinch realizes (with a sharp twinge of shame that makes him bite his tongue hard, tasting copper) he didn’t think Who's were capable of that. Capable of sadness. Of loneliness. Of pasts they’d rather not remember.

He’d always imagined himself alone in misery.

His chest tugged and he grunted, body folding to catch the sting, rubbing the spot where the hurt was too deep to reach.

“Max…” he said quietly to his dog, who reached up a paw to touch his knee, worried. “What’s happening to me?”

Max has no answer but to nudge his shoulder and whine.

The feeling passed soon enough but he sat there for a bit, hunched and frowning. Footsteps on the floor above dragged him out of his thoughts and he went back to work.

* * *

It was an odd afternoon. Groopert was picked up early to help his parents pick out a Christmas tree and Ozzy and Izzy were both out sick with colds, and so after school, there’s only Axel to walk home with.

“They’re so lucky,” Axel kicked a small rock and it skidded on the sidewalk, sticking in a crack. “Getting to stay home for the day.”

Cindy-Lou made a little run for the pebble and kicked it. It flew into the road a bounced a few times. She blew hair out of her face. “I _know_.”

“Wish I could stay home and miss math.”

She snorted. “Maths fine. It’s _English_.”

He wrinkled his nose, looking for more rocks but couldn’t find any. He crunched on some ice with his boot instead. “So-” he asked after a minute, “did you see the Grinch again?”

“Nope.” She hopped on some ice. It crackled and split. “Not since the other night for dinner.”  

“You… haven’t called him?”

She bit her tongue, looking off at the Christmas decorations on the top floors of some of the houses to avoid looking at her friends face. “Nope,” she lied, popping the ‘p’. “Totally Grinch-Free!”

He sighed, walking faster next to her, jumping a little higher the next time he squashed some ice. “That’s good. Cuz we were super worried.”

“Totally.”

“And we thought you’d go back and call him anyway.”

“Who, _me_?” She shook her head. “C’mon, really?”

He shrugged. “You’re you.”

She laughed, looking away again. It was easier to lie to a window or a roof or a garland or another Who that wasn’t involved in children’s Santa based schemes. Mr. Fester was putting up decorations outside his little shop -Festers Festives- and she waved at him. The man called back “afternoon, Cindy-Lou!” before grabbing another wreath for the store window. “Yeah,” she said, staring at the old man. “I guess.”  

She bites her tongue hard once she gets home and sees the little pawprints leading up the front steps. 

 _What her friends didn't know_ , she thought, before running in the house with a happy squeal. 

* * *

As it turned out, the frayed wires in their HVAC _were_ a fire hazard. And he was just looking through them when Cindy-Lou arrived home and rushed down the basement steps, squealing at the sight of him and Max in her house. “You’re here!” Her cheeks and nose were bright pink when she shed her scarf and coat and gloves, but it didn’t stop her from bouncing around. “You’re here, you’re here!”

Max turned his head and he lost his light source to an excited dog looking for attention.

“Yes,” he’d said, lifting his head to try a smile. It was fine if he took a little break anyway. And Max deserved a run around. “I’m here. And…” he waved smugly to the HVAC, “I’m fixing your heat.”

“ _Awesome_.” She looked at his toolbelt and Max’s headlamp while he circled her, licking her hand and pawing her legs. She laughed, scratching his ears until Grinch finally clicked his tongue and Max obediently scampering back to his job. Cindy-Lou moved towards him and sat by his legs, sitting at his hip. “Are you making a new thing for it?”

“Not this time. Just-” he grunted, snapping away a bad piece of rusted metal. “Just fixing what's there.”

“Oh.” She shoved her hands under her legs. “I haven’t seen anything you’ve made.” He hummed. “Can I?”

Grinch stalled. “Uh- can you what?”

“See something you made!”

“Oh- uh… sure.” He tried to shrug lying down. It looked more like a wiggle. “You want to?”

She nodded hard enough for her hair to bob wildly around. Her grin was wider. “It’s so _cool_ ,” she said. “You make all these things and fix our house and- and- and _you’re_ _so cool_!” It was such an earnest compliment that came so easily from her, but it took him for a loop (and then u-turned him straight into a wall). He choked and jerked up, hitting his head on the panel with a _thunk_. Max jumped, moving to nudge his hand. She sat up quickly, eyes wide. “Are you okay!”

“Fine! Finefinefine…” He rubbed his head, coughing back on shock. He gave Max a pat ( _I’m fine!_ ) and the dog backed away with a careful look. “Just- uh… Just… not used to the size of this thing yet…” He rubbed his head again, going back to work to displace his embarrassment. She sat back slowly, watching him again. Her eyes stayed fixed on his hands, memorizing little movements.

After a while, he tilted his head back up. It gave a little throb from the earlier abuse, and he winced. “So… you like this stuff?”  

She smiled, scooching forward, settling next to his stomach. “Totally,” she said. Her hands flew up, fingers wiggling in a charades game of building and twisting. “Making your own stuff, making it look cool; that’s sick.”

“Uh. Yeah.” He snapped away another bit of metal, reaching the rest of the wires behind it. For a time that was the only sound in the basement. Metal hitting the ground, the shuffle of wires, the occasional hum.

She kept watching. Kept her eyes on him, mesmerized. Slowly, she dragged her legs up, winding her arms around them. Her chin settled on her knees. When she spoke again, her voice was shy. “You know… I sort of make things, too?”

He sat up, body cramping from not moving for too long. “Really?”

“They’re not… great. But they’re okay.” She shrugged. “My friends and I make traps and stuff. But you know. That’s whatever.”

Grinch shook his head and stood, hand on his lower back. He arched his spine and it popped. He gave all his limbs a little stretch (his whole body creaking and cracking and _oh_ if he wasn’t beginning to feel his age) before brushing more dust off his green fur. “My first inventions were _tiny_ . I started out with a slingshot and it _barely_ worked. Broke on the first try, I think.”

“ _Really_?”

“Really.”

Her eyes lit up. “Could you show me how you fix this? I haven’t worked with wires yet. I wanna learn.”

It was a moment Max would remember while he sat on the cold basement floor and watched Grinch and this tiny, peculiar little girl. The tightness on Grinch’s face retreated, if only for a time. He lightened, and his eyes began to (slowly, very slowly) lose their acidity.

He shifted a little and moved back from her.

But he still smiled. Despite each nervous tick, he smiled.

“Uh- sure.” He waved her over with three different hand motions (hating each one for looking forced and trying a new one in its place before giving up entirely, a glowing embarrassment that Cindy-Lou didn’t notice). “Yeah- so- uh… do you have gloves?” She shook her head and he pulled his off. “You’re going to need some.”

The girl grinned scrambling to her feet, her little hands trembling in barely contained excitement. “You’re really gonna let me try!”

He fidgeted. “Why not? It’s useful. Unless you don’t-” but she snatched them away and held them to her.

“I do! Show me, show me!”

The gloves were too big but they worked, and she sat near the wires, just next to him. He flinched away when their shoulders brushed, breath stuttering, but he’d have to be close to help show her each little part and he gradually relaxed until he hovered just above her head. “Okay- so you’re gonna want to start with the red one there. See how it’s -careful- see how it’s frayed? We need to insulate it.”

Max sat back and did his own little job and let the Grinch do something on his own, reveling in the beginnings of a change that not even he could understand, but loved all the same. It’s too new to tell, to name. But it’s something.

He watches like a very overzealous hawk while the six-year-old fiddled with wires. He interjected where he could, passing her electrical tape and pointing to what she’d missed, every so often throwing long speeches worth of advice for her to memorize.

He quizzed her later on everything he’d said, like making her take some sort of inventors oath. “What do we do before we touch wires?”

“Turn the power off,” said Cindy, who’d been listening to his talk and nodding the whole time.

“And do we touch anything without gloves.”

“ _No_ ,” she said, seriously. “ _Never_.”

“And do we do anything in this house without me here?”

“Only unless I really want to and mom leaves all the sharp objects lying around.” He gave her a look and she snorted. “I’m kidding!”

“ _Science_ ,” he said, “is not for _kidding_.” But he couldn’t do much to hide his smile from her, and she laughed, turning back to her work.

When they’re almost done with the job it’ll be her turn to talk. He’d be on one knee, pointing to a red wire and telling her to take her time with the pliers, bending bits of copper back, and she’d said, “thank you,” as easy as pointing out the weather.

“Uh-” he drew his pointed hand to his chest. “For what?”

She was still holding the pliers, sticking her tongue out to pay close attention to her work. “For coming today.”

“It was fine. Fit into my schedule, you know? I had nothing planned. So.”

His strained tone didn’t bother her. “Yeah, but it helped. A _ton_. Because my mom…” And it was then that she went silent.

Quietly, as if it was a secret operation, she glanced behind him up the stairs where she knew her mother was. Then she gestured him closer. He grimaced but moved his head a little lower. “My mom,” she whispered, too loudly to be a whisper but she was trying, “she works _so hard_ . And she’s always doing stuff for other people. And she’s  _sad_.” She looked down, thinking, before looking back up with one of her oh-too frequent honest smiles.

This girl, he’d decided, was too full of those.

“But you’re here! And you’re helping! And I think she’s less sad with you here!” She turned back to her work, chipper in her spoken realizations. “It’s really neat being friends with someone who’s good at this stuff.”

He went silent.

Still.

Holding air around, in, against him.

She didn’t notice, using the pliers to bend another bit of the copper fray away. “She’s super happy when you come over, and so am I! Because you’re awesome, and you’re helping us, and dinners are way more fun when you’re here because mom’s not crazy all over the place, and everything’s a little better, you know?”

His hands are shaking, and he digs them into his knees. 

"We're just really, really happy you're here with us," she says, poking at a wire with her gloved hand. "I'm glad you're here."  

The walls are caving in around him, beating to the syllable of _friend_ and _better_ and _happy_ , and with it, his chest beats-

(th-thump - th-thump)

and then surges,

(th-thump - th-thump - th-thump)

and then gives such a slicing ache that he hunches over with a sharp cry.

She falls down once with how fast she’s on her feet, rushing to him with her hands out, but he backs away fast, reaching out and mouthing _I’m okay_. The pain is receding fast, letting him catch his breath, and he gagged, rubbing at his chest with a flat palm.

Max is at his feet, barking and whining, and he reaches down to try and pet his dog, but the Max wouldn’t be placated that easily, and nips at his fingers, ears back.  

“Mr. Grinch?” Her voice is pitched, and when he opens his eyes from where they were squeezed shut, he sees her terrified face looking up at him.

His chest twists again, and he pulls his mouth into a line. “‘M’okay…” he rasped, wheezing and giving his chest another pat for good measure. He finally gave Max a scratch -“I’m okay, buddy,”- and stood up straight, experimenting.

When he didn’t feel any pain, he sighed, though his hand stayed put on the fluff round his sternum. His heart thudded too-loud in his ears. “Sorry, I- I don’t know what-” he took in a deep breath. It didn’t hurt and so he let some of the tension go. “I’m fine.”

She gnawed her lip. “Maybe I should get my mom… She’s a nurse and-”

“No! No.” He shook his head, and pat his chest for show. The last thing he needed was more attention. “Just a muscle cramp or something.” He cleared his throat, nerves still vibrating, on the edge of panic. But it’s a state he’s used to, and he leans against it. He shook his head and did his best to steer them back. “Let’s finish this job, yeah? What’s the rule of any good inventor and finishing projects.”

He was glad she understood, relaxing reluctantly into their rhythm. “To always finish them.”

“Even when…”

“Even when it sucks.”

“ _Good_.” And then, “but, uh, don’t let your mom hear you say that, maybe?”

“Roger that, Mr. Grinch!”

She keeps watching him, though. Every few minutes she looks up, worried. 

But nothing else like that happens while they finish up fixing the heat, and so eventually she relaxes. 

(But Grinch, as much as he pretended to, still feels his hands shake.) . 

* * *

Grinch and Cindy-Lou work on the wires until sundown, when Donna is calling to them that there was dinner. The green grump of Mt. Crumpit doesn’t realize what he’s doing when he helps Cindy-Lou take the too-big gloves off and lets her drag him upstairs.

Still doesn’t realize even after he was willfully sitting down with them, stabbing potatoes and brisket with a fork and listening to all Cindy’s ideas for inventions.

“Those are _amazing_ ,” he told her. “They need some workshopping. But I bet if we wrote them down first-you’re gonna need blueprint paper, though. I think I have extra-”

“ _We_?” she squealed happily, bouncing in her chair.

“Sure! My labs got everything.” He realized what he was saying and looked up at Donna, squirming in his chair, shoulders tucked tight. “I mean… if it’s okay with you...”

Cindy-Lu puffed up proudly. “I’m his assistant, now,” she gloated, swinging her feet. “So I _have to_ , mom!”

He turned to the little girl and Donna watched. It was a sad, gentle thing when his face contracted, brows lowering and mouth twisting. He looked confused. “My assistant?”

“Course! You’re showing me how to fix things! I’m gonna learn and then I’m going to fix the whole house!”

It was a sight. Her daughter had always been a powerful, bossy little presence, stomping around, declaring how things would be. She’d order around the universe, if she could. Arrange it in the order she thought best. And it would have bowed to her, no doubt, planets aligning to the will of Cindy-Lou.

The man sitting beside her doesn’t look like he’s declared anything ever, squirming in his seat.

It’s like watching a semi-truck about to hurdle into a butterfly.

She was going to swoop in and rescue him from her teeny force of nature but was (happily) surprised when he found a new, practiced bravery and did it himself. “Uh. Sure. Assistant.” Cindy-Lou bounced in her chair and beamed.

He looked back at Donna. “I mean, if you don’t mind.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Sure,” she said. “Fine by me.”

The two inventors threw themselves back into their conversation.

Donna slipped a piece of brisket under the table for Max and listened.

* * *

**December 13th (8:26 pm)**

**(11 Days, 3 Hours, and 35 Minutes Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

When a pivotal moment had occurred, the Grinch could not have known that a few minutes, a few seconds, would have changed his life. He reflected over it coldly later the next day. Wondered what things would have been if he’d left on time and gone back to his cave. But he hadn’t. Because he’d been listening to stories about school and friends, and because Donna had told him a story about her time in the E.R. that almost make him laugh (he did, even if he hid it under a napkin), and he’d gotten far too into discussing the different types of things he’d created in his lab.

He’d relaxed.

For the first time in so long, he’d relaxed.

It was a mistake, he knew, to relax.

And then Donna had gotten up and gone to the sink to refill her glass and had looked outside and cursed under her breath.

Grinch had looked up from Cindy-Lue. “What?”

“Sleet storm,” Donna mumbled. “We totally forgot" She shook her head. "Gonna be a fun clean up tomorrow after everything freezes over.”

The words of it sunk in slowly, but once they had they stuck fast. “Sleet sto- _oh no no no_ -” he hadn’t meant to freak out, but he had, leaping to his feet to join her, looking out the little window.

In a matter of minutes, the world had been herded away in a sheet of ice. He'd forgotten. 

 _I'll set an alarm_ , he remembered saying, the words coming back to him in a tumble. But he'd been so busy, so confused, so  _crushed_... 

It was his turn to curse. Cindy-Lue snorted from behind them and muttered something that sounded like _grown-ups_ under her breath. “I’ll leave. Now.” He made a move to go but stopped when Donna reached for him, her hand just barely brushing his arm before falling away. 

“What? You can’t leave. Not in this.”

“I can’t _stay_!” The thought of it alone had brought his heart pounding. “If I leave now, Max and I can probably make it before it gets too bad.”

“It’s already bad!” Donna gestured outside. “And you might make it. But Max?” She looked down under the table where the dog was begging Cindy-Lue for more brisket. Grinch had groaned and rubbed his brow, and Donna had smiled a defeated sort of smile. It looked genuine. His chest still tightened.

Panic.

Fear.

 _Anger_.

 _Trapped me here_ , he’d think, watching Max begin to sense the change in the air, ignoring offered brisket to watch his Grinch begin to Drown. _They’re trapping me here_.

Cindy-Lue had charmed him with her little talk about happiness and she'd gotten him here with the ego-boost from that morning, asking him to fix their heat, and now? Now he was trapped. She must have planned this. Must have known that if she'd gotten him to stay just long enough-

Donna’s hand on his elbow had him jerking away, but she didn’t look offended, even if she might have been. “It’ll be fine,” she promised. “These happen around here, you know? But it’ll pass by tonight and you can leave tomorrow. Most of the ice should go with the sun, anyway.”  

“Wonderful,” he’d muttered.

She smiled again, even if his answers barely warranted that sort of kindness. “I’ll make up the couch,” Donna chirped, ignoring his grumbles and panicked stares outside. “Cindy, can you help me? Get some spare pillows from the closet. Grinch has to stay over.”

His awful, swirling panic had been barely covered behind the excited cheers of a child chanting _SLEEPOVER! SLEEPOVER! SLEEPOVER!_ And in those moments of chanting, staring at the dinner table that had brought him (trapped him) in this little place where he did not belong, he felt totally and completely lost.

(Drowning)

(He was _Drowning_ )

He’d pressed his hands into his scalp when Donna had left and breathed heavy through his nose, Max leaning against his legs, whining. “ _Why_ …” he hissed. “ _Why couldn’t I have just_ …” Max nudged him with his nose, nipping at his ankles and making little noises in the back of his throat. “ _Stupid_ ,” whispered Grinch. “ _This… this is what they do. I told you! I told you they’d- they trap you! That’s what they do! They trap you and they- this isn’t- I hate this I hate this I hate hate hate_ …”  

Outside the sleet clunked and dragged across the panes, whispering little mockeries through to him. He moved his hands from his head to his eyes, pressing hard.

The Grinch of Tomorrow would look back and loathe this moment. Hate himself for this moment. Know that if he’d planned better and remembered who he was, what he was supposed to be, what his _goal_ had been, he could have left earlier and avoided everything.

But he hadn’t. And there he was.

Trapped in the house, barely knowing what would happen next.

(The Grinch of Tomorrow would know what would happen, and would hate that more.)

But there was little to be changed at that point, and he snapped to attention when Donna’s feet began their descent back down the stairs, carrying a bundle of a quilt, Cindy-Lue trotting behind, still chanting SLEEPOVER! SLEEPOVER! SLEEPOVER!

“Come on,” Donna had said. “I’ll make up the couch for you.”

He frowned and looked back out the window and dug his nails into his palms until he felt the blood well up and burn.

He should have never fixed their heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	7. In Which Cindy-Lou Finds an Invention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cindy-Lou traps the Grinch, Donna begins to trust, and Christmas Lights watch on. 
> 
> Grinch also remembers things. 
> 
> And second drafts are written.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to the wonderful and talented Invader_Sam (author of "Not What She Wished For") for helping get me out of my writing funk! You're awesome!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Also, congrats to crazykoala, who just got A's on her finals! Thanks for reading, and we're so proud of you!

**December 13th (8:44 pm)**

**(11 Days, 3 Hours, and 16 Minutes Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

The burn of anxiety barely left him while he helped wipe down the table, casting cruel glances outside the windows at the brewing, thickening storm. Cindy-Lou was chatting with her mother in the background while her mother mumbled something about needing to call whoever was watching the twins and let them know she’d get them in the morning.

He does his best to ignore it all, content to back away into a hovel and stay unnoticed until he could escape.

Cindy-Lou had no intention of letting him, and before he could sneak off through the house she’d blocked his way and grinned up at him.

“Come on,” Cindy-Lue took his hand and dragged him towards the living room. “I need to show you something!”

He cast a pleading look at Max, who huffed at him before sitting under the counter, waiting for scraps to fall.

 _Traitor_ , glared Grinch, while his captor lead him away.

Donna offered him a cup of tea on his way out and a sympathetic Thank-You-For-Putting-Up-With-Her smile.

He didn’t smile back. But the mug was warm in his hand, so he complied.

They wound up in the living room just outside the kitchen, on the floor in front of the red couch. He could see the beginnings of a holiday floorplan being set up. Their stockings had been hung over the fireplace, and while Cindy-Lue ran up to her room he got up and strolled past, eying them with barely hidden disgust. Off towards the large windows, the base for the Christmas tree was out. There was room for presents. Lights had been taped onto the walls.

Max trotted over (having realized he wasn’t getting lucky with food) and sat by his ankles. Making sure Donna was just out of ear-shot, he pointed and scowled at all of the little additions to their home. “How long do you think this took to put up,” he drawled, flicking at a bit of cheery tinsel. He looked down at the dog at his ankles and smirked. “How long do you think it’ll take us to steal.”

Max looked over and around, tilting his head.

Grinch looked over it all again. There was a pang of something, somewhere under his stomach. The same sort of feeling when he’d held their tiny home (and then broken it and still had yet to make a new one) and fixed their heat and texted jokes from his cave.

He shook his head and tightened his fists. “Eleven days,” he muttered. “And then we can-”

Whatever else he was going to say was put on hold by a child barreling down the stairs, two at a time, nearly careening into the floor before her knees folded and she plopped expertly onto the floor in front of him. “Got it!” she said, brandishing a binder decorated in enough pink glitter to coat her fingers (and everything else around them). “Look!”

Putting all feelings aside, he sat down on the floor and joined her.

When she shoved the thing into his hands, the glitter clumped into his fur, and besides an animated scowl or two, he did a good job at ignoring it.

It was full of white paper, all a little crinkled and well abused with pencils and crayons. When he dragged his hand across a page he could feel it- the canyons and divots from a passionate creator. “So this is it! I’ve been working on them for forever, I think…” She bit her lip, lowering her voice. “Sometimes in class, which I’m not s’posed to do.”

Which would explain why a few of the pictures, deeper in the binder, were on the back of algebra and geometry worksheets.

A _lot_ of the inventions were Christmas oriented.

Better structures of gingerbread houses and cities.

Christmas tree ornaments that doubled as night lights.

Fireproofing Christmas tree spray.  

It made him want to groan, and he all but struggled to not roll his eyes, flipping past them.

But there were other ideas, too. Mugs that could heat themselves. Drain snakes that could de-clog any drain. She pointed to a page, nervously tapping on a picture of a dishwasher that could clean and dry just about anything before the mechanical arms on the sides whisked them back to their places in the cupboards.

“I’m not sure how this could work,” she said, and her voice was timid and small, but her eyes still shone with unwavering determination. “I’m not sure how _any_ of these would work, actually but…” she shrugged. “I’m going to make them work one day. Soon.”

“Oh?” He flipped through more.

“Mmmhm. I gotta.” She leaned back to look over where her mom was making herself a cup of tea before leaning forward and whispering, “my mom needs help. Really soon.”

Grinch’s hand stalled on the paper.

He remembered Donna’s face, illuminated for only moments by a flashlight. The brief, bright tragedies that bloomed there. He blinked, and looked over Cindy towards the kitchen where Donna was busy stirring sugar into her mug, eyes dull and far away.

The heavy plan of stolen presents began to get heavier.

“Oh,” he said again.  

He winced, jerking back when she tapped his knee, but it didn’t stop her from motioning him down with crooked fingers. “You wanna know a secret?” she whispered. “I’m writing a letter to Santa right now about what I want.” She lowered her voice more, gesturing him to lean down with her. He did. “I’m gonna ask him to help my mom.”

The heavy feeling grew until it was sitting on his chest, its sharp claws digging through fur and skin and sternum, and he had to press his lips taught to keep back a groan of pain.

He breathed past it, but it didn’t fade.

“Don’t-” he swallowed, his hands fell against his knees. “Don’t you want… presents?” he gestured to the empty place where the Christmas tree would be. Hoping she’d say yes. Pleading she’d say _yes_.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Just help for my mom.” She looked up, watching him with large, hopeful eyes. “You think he can do that, right?”

Grinch tightened his hands. He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Cindy’s face began to fall. “I mean- you’re a grown-up! My mom always says grown-ups know lots more stuff, and you’re an inventor so I bet you know loads more than anyone… and I thought maybe you’d know? If I could ask him? If that’s okay for me to ask?” She moved forward on her knees, too close to him for comfort, but he stopped himself from moving back. “Can he?”

His mind was suddenly very full of little broken houses and red doors and warm kitchens, and the weightiness of it all made him want to throw up. The claw reached farther and grabbed hold of his heart. Twisted.

“I-” he dug his nails into his palms to stop himself from curling them into his fur. “I don’t know.”

She deflated.  

“But… but I’m sure he’ll _try_ …”

He’s not sure why he said it. Not sure what had him thinking this was a good idea. But holding that book in his lap, half covered in pink glitter and watching a little girl plead to Santa for help for her mother-

-whatever the reason was, he’d said it. And now she was standing and smiling and nodding and saying, “Me too! I think so, too! And if he can’t, then-then we can, right? Because I have these inventions!”

“Right,” he said, numb and burning all at once.

He drew his eyes back to the little invention binder to avoid having to look Cindy-Lue in the eye. “Why don’t we- we look these over together. I’m sure there’s one you can build at some point. Something easy.”

She nodded and plopped back down, and rambled on about all her other ideas for household necessities, whispering too loudly about all of the great things she’d make for her mother.

He tried to listen.

He couldn’t seem to.

“You’ll help me, right?” she said at one point, grabbing his knees in her tiny hands, waking him from his cold-burning.

He jolted. “Sorry?”

“You’ll help me!” she grinned, laughing, pointing to the book of inventions. “You’ve gotta help me make these!”

“Uh-”

“Cause I’m your assistant, right?”

She couldn’t have known. Couldn’t have possibly understood that in a few short days, her house would be ransacked of all that it had. That her town would be stripped of its holiday and that he’d take and take and take and take from everyone-

-from her.  

“Yeah,” he said, curling his hands into the carpet to stop them from shaking.

Donna Who saved him from what he was sure would be an inevitable breakdown. Her shadow ghosted over them and when he looked to his right, she was sitting herself beside him on the carpet, nursing her cup of tea between two hands. “What are you two conspiring about over here?”

Cindy-Lou grinned, crawling closer to the two grownups. Grinch tried to move away, the closeness of two people suffocating under the low roof surrounded by the smell of well-used decorations- pine and salt and caramel- but couldn’t do it in time before her tiny hands were on his knee again, resting. “Nothin’,” she chirped. “I’m showing Mr. Grinch my inventions!”

“Very nice!” Donna gave him another look. He was apparently supposed to understand these looks. They were another fluent language she spoke- a dialect between grownups that he’d never picked up. He looked away quickly, staring back at the binder. “She’s always had a huge imagination. I told her that when she’s older she can go to one of those inventing camps, but you’ve ruined that plan.” Donna laughed. “Did she tell you she’s joining the robotics club? Apparently, you inspired her.”

The fire from his chest reaches his neck and spine, and he looked over at Cindy-Lou. He asks, "Really?" even though he wants to ask  _I inspired you?_

She missed his tone and goes on, cheery enough. “I missed sign-ups. But mom says there’s next year!” Cindy-Lou took the binder back, flipping through it. “And I’ll totally be ahead now that I’m working with Mr. Grinch.”

Grinch furled his fingers. He tilted his head up, finally chancing a look at Donna.

She was looking at him. Her stare was careful but fond, and he felt like he had to say something, especially seeing that the burn in his chest (which was spreading like a forest fire) had started to make a little smile pop up against its will.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to push away the smile. “Yeah, totally. You’ll be ahead.” And then, “you’re my assistant.”

Cindy-Lou beamed. “There’s always these big competitions! I told mom that she’ll have to come, but now you’ll have to come, too!”

He didn’t notice that his limbs had relaxed until he was forcing himself to tense up again. It didn’t work. “... guess so,” he said weakly.

Her face lit up.

* * *

 

**December 13th (9:28 pm)**

**(11 Days, 2 Hours, and 32 Minutes Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

He smiles more than he’s meant to that night. Max leans against him, breathing deep and steady, and the feel of that was a security against the ever-present weight surrounded by the Christmas decorations.

Cindy-Lou and Donna don’t have any clue of the guilt that furled around him, and he wants it to stay that way, but every so often Donna would turn and give him a look.

_You alright?_

He’d try a nod, but it always felt too stiff. _Fine. I’m fine._

(He’s not fine.)

(He’s the opposite of fine.)

(Especially if the opposite of fine was cold and terrible and weak and guilty and wrong, wrong, wrong.)

They sit there for some time; the two adults leaning against the couch while Cindy-Lou describes the semantics of robotics club and how each of her little inventions might find their way among the throngs when Donna finally puts a stop to it all with a glance at the clock.

“You,” she said, reaching over and ruffling her daughter's hair, “need to get to bed.”

“ _Mom_.”

“It’s a school night.”

“They might call a snow day!”

“They might. And you can hope all you want for one but, until then,” and she pointed up the stairs, “bed.”

Cindy-Lou sags, but gets up, leaving her binder on the floor by the couch. She hugs her mother, and moves to hug Grinch but thinks better of it when he winces and gives a little wave instead. The gesture leaves the fire in him blazing into molten affection. The hand round his heart sinks in its claws.

He despises it.

“Goodnight, Mr. Grinch,” says Cindy.

“Night,” he chokes.

Max gets up with a yawn and, after looking over his shoulder at His Grinch, who he must have deemed fine enough to be alone, ran after Cindy-Lou up the stairs. She shrieked when she noticed him following and yelled, “MOM, MAX IS SLEEPING WITH ME!” down the stairs like she’d just won every one of lifes lotteries.

Grinch wanted to call him back but stopped himself. _Don't let them see you're afraid_ rang loud in his mind, and he tried his best to slip back into the comfortable apathy that always seemed to wait for him just behind his ribs. “Sorry. He’s- he really likes sleeping with people. On beds.” Grinch laughed nervously, feeling the absence of his dog when he was left alone next to Donna in the living room. “He’s going to shed all over her blankets.”

Donna waved it off, using the couch as leverage when she stood. “It’s fine. I need to clean them tomorrow anyway.” She gave her mug a wiggle. “Did you want any more tea?”

He nodded and she took his mug. As she walked towards the kitchen she began flicking lights off.

One light turned off the kitchen.

Two lights turned off the stairwell.

Three, the front hall.

At the fourth, the living room finally fell into darkness-

-and the Christmas Lights pooled into view.

He’d seen them when he’d come through, and after dinner, but they’d been little more than decorations before. Sitting fixed with tape against the walls, they were bulbs and wire and bits of past tape all furled together in an ugly mesh of bare-bones holiday cheer.

Now, with the lights off, they explode. They _bloom_. They rise and flicker and burn at the walls and beneath their glow, shrunken under the orange spillings of light, he’s turned into little more than something small, and terrible, and cold.

This, he realizes, is what their house will look like in a few short days. When he would go down their chimney and sneak through their home and strip the walls bare. When he’d stuff presents into bags and tear stockings off nails and leave everything gutted and raw.

His hands folded against his chest, where he was beginning to feel little more than gutted and raw himself.

He took a step back from the lights-

-than another-

-and nearly jumps a foot in the air when Donna says, from behind him, “I didn’t know if you wanted honey?”

He yelped, twisting on his heel, hands raised. She was holding a mug out towards him. “Oh!” He reached out and snatched it from her, ignoring the burn when some leaped out and onto his wrist. It felt good to have something in his hands. “Thanks.”

Donna nodded and then watched him a moment while he took his first sip. Under the lights, she glowed gold. “I know this wasn't your ideal night." She gestured out towards the snow. "But at least the heat works." She looked up over her mug. "Thank you for that."

"Right," he muttered. "Course."

They stood there a while, watching the window. He stewed in his contempt and she brewed in her thoughtfulness, and the both of them were silent for a time until she spoke up again. "You know… Cindy-Lou is so happy you started coming down the mountain.”

So much like the way she’d watched him all night, her words were soft and careful. He paused mid-sip, the tea burning his tongue. He swallowed.

“Um…”

“Mmmhm.” Her hands folded tighter around the mug. “She’s too kind for her own good. I always tell her that she’s kind, but I didn't think she knows just how-” She gazed off a moment before shaking her head. “I can’t really say the same for me. I wasn’t too sure about having you here.” And when she looked at him again, her eyes were cool. “I’m _still_ not sure.”

The sounds from outside seemed to grow. The pelting of snow on the window. The wind moaning fitfully. The two of them stand apart, miles between them. Her eye contact never breaks. He wants to shrink, but he rebelled. Because he’s always rebelled. Standing stiff and tall, trying to drown her like she’s enveloped him. “That,” he said darkly, “is probably a good idea.” And he holds her stare and dares her to challenge him back like so many Who's before her. 

He expects her to agree with him.

He expects her to say that she knows what sort of character she’s dealing with.

He expects her to ask him to never come back, to never talk to her daughter again.

He expects that, if she did, he’d be fine with it.

(But knows he wouldn’t.)

He doesn’t expect her to smile.

 _Cold_ , he reminds himself, his hands turning to fists and his back going rigid. _You’re cold. You’re mean. You’re The Grinch._

“I trust my daughter. And I’m still not sure what’s happening here, but… I’m glad that she’s too kind. And I’m _glad_ she asked you down. It's been really nice having someone else around. Really, really nice. I'm glad you came down. And I'm glad you came down to us.”   

She’s all warm under the lights, holding her tea, standing across from him in her little home. And then Donna Who reached out and took his hand.

So transfixed by her words, he didn’t notice the hand until it had grabbed his and he didn’t have the mental capacity -paralyzed by kindness and Christmas lights- to pull away. And so he let her take his hand and give it a squeeze. “Feel free to come here anytime, Mr. Grinch,” she said. “We’d be happy to have you here. Anytime.”

And with that, she dropped his hand and moved away towards the stairs. “Thank you again for fixing our heat,” she called down softly. “And if you ever need anything, we’re always here. Remember that, Mr. Grinch. We’re always here.”

He stands there, under the orange fire of Christmas lights, and holds his breath. The mug in his hand shakes when he quivers.

He knows, too late, that he shouldn’t have gone stiff and cold. That’s the issue with ice. When it’s met with warmth, it’s the first thing to snap. And so he doesn’t realize he’s crying until the orange glow blurs around him, turning the whole of the little, warm, kind house into a bursting flame.

* * *

  
He tries his best to sleep, but the words cloy to his skin, and the claws around his heart sink deeper with each beat. He’s surrounded by Christmas lights and familiar walls. He can’t do much beyond think about his plan.

Stealing Christmas had seemed so much simpler before.

He got up off the couch at one point and walked to the fireplace. He ran his hand along the stockings, almost expecting them to burn. They didn’t. They looked handmade, the stitching beginning to fray and pop.

Above his head, he could hear the soft noises of breathing from Donna. He imagined Cindy-Lou must have been asleep, too.

His hands folded in front of his chest.

“ _What am I doing_ …” he whispered, so quiet he could barely hear it, as he walked along and ran his hand along the lights and the garlands, turning around to look at the house beneath the warm glow.

The orange burn of those lights reached along and along and along through the house until they just brushed the kitchen table.

His heart stalled, and he bit his lip hard to keep from yelping.

“What am I doing,” he said again, finally moving back towards the couch and lying down across it with his back to the room, pressing his face into the cushions to keep away the holiday intrusion. Donna had been right. The couch was comfortable and it smells like their family and their home. Somehow, that made everything worse.

He closed his eyes until it hurt and held his breath until it burned and fisted his hands until the nails stung his skin, and stayed like that-

hurting and scared

-until he drifted off, away, to sleep.

* * *

**December 14th (6:03 am)**

**(10 Days, 17 Hours, and 57 Minutes Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Max woke him up with a nudge to the chin, and he jerked up, blinking in the cool blue light of morning. Outside the windows, the snow was piled high, and he frowned a moment when he realized he was looking at homes and roads and cars all buried under frost and ice and sleet instead of the empty slopes out his own windows.

And then-

“Oh…” he muttered, reaching out to scratch Max’s ear. The dog's tongue lolled. “Right.”

He’d forgotten where he was.

He lifted his feet off the couch, cracked his neck, and rubbed his arms. The house was blissfully warm -his own doing- and he was sure the two other people in the house were grateful for it. But there was a chill around him he couldn't shake. His head hurt, and his eyes hurt, and the conversation from the night before lingered on his skin like oil.  

He could hear Donna just waking up above his head, shuffling along the floor.

Softly, he heard her call her daughters name. Heard her whisper “it’s a snow day” and heard the girls soft little cry of delight before she drifted back off. Donna’s feet shuffled around some more, moving in little paths above his head.

The Christmas Lights were still on around him, but in the morning they weren’t as glaring. They pulsed now, watching him warily, and he did the same back, looking away quickly. And when he did, wandering away from the couch and towards the little kitchen and its small, familiar table, he caught sight of the calendar.

It hung on the wall, filled with reminders about school events and appointments, with every passing day scratched away with a red pen.

His breath caught fast in his throat.

“We need to go.”

Max gives him a look, trotting by his side, no doubt ready to eat whatever he could find in the kitchen. Grinch motioned him back. “I’ll feed you when we get home but… but we need to go. _Now_.”

Above, the sounds of shuffling were louder. Growing. Moving towards the stairs. He picked up his own pace.  “Come on,” he urged. “Come on, come on, come on.” They passed Christmas lights, stockings, the little base for the Christmas tree.

His scarf hung in its honorary place on the wall, and he grabbed it, wrapping it around his neck once, twice, three times before unlocking the front door with clumsy hands and throwing himself onto the porch.

The cold hit him fast, and he barreled against it.

Behind him, he could hear Donna’s voice, heavy with sleep; “Grinch? Where are you-?”

“Sorry,” he threw back fast, keeping himself forward to keep from seeing her face.  “Gotta go.”

The door slammed before he could hear the rest, and her words fell, cut away, into the snow.

* * *

When Cindy-Lou gets up, Grinch is gone.

Her mother is drinking coffee at the table, and the couch is empty. The smell of his shampoo lingers through pine needles and her mothers drink. Her mom looked up and smiled. “Hey, honey.” She reached out an arm and Cindy-Lou fell against it, drawn to her mother's side. “We’ll go together later to pick the twins up, okay?”

“Mmhm.” Cindy-Lou detached, looking around again. “Where’s Mr. Grinch?”

“He left early, honey.”

“Did you see him?”

“Barely.” She blew on her coffee. Plumes of steam wisped away. “He had to go. He ran out.”

Her child's face fell. “But I wanted to show him more of my inventions, today!”

“Another time, Cindy-Lou.”

“Maybe I can call-”

“Another time. Okay?” When the sad face only grew sadder, Donna reached out and cupped her chin. “Last night was… a lot for him. I know you’re going full speed here, but you’ve got to give some people just a little more patience, alright?”

She nodded, her eyes just as sad as before, but a little hopeful. “Can I call him?” When her mother opened her mouth, she quickly amended it with, “Later? Just to see if he’s alright?”

“I think that would be fine.” Donna pat the seat next to her. “Come on. I’ll make you breakfast.”

Cindy-Lou scurried up, her mother moving to the stove. But she still watched the couch behind her, framed in the Christmas lights and the cold sunshine. Her mind spun a million miles a minute.

She couldn’t tell her friends that he’d been here, as much as she’d want to. But someone had to know. Someone had to understand what she was trying to do. That she was doing her best. That _something_ was changing.

She jumped off the chair. “I’ll be right back,” she said to her mom before rounding out of the kitchen and taking the stairs up to her room two at a time. Her desk was still set up from the other night, and she nearly ripped the piece of paper when she tore it free from her little notebook.

 _Dear Santa,_ she began.

_I know it hasn’t been long since I wrote my last letter. But there’s been some new stuff here. And I think you have to know._

_Remember how I wasn’t really sure about what I wanted last time? Well, I think I’m getting more of an idea._

She paused and tapped her pencil on the paper, gnawing on the eraser until the taste got to be too much and she had to smack her tongue on the roof of her mouth to get it out.

_My mom’s really tired, and could totally use the help. I have a few ideas. I’ll tell you in the next letter, I promise. But I was also wondering, since I’ve been so, so, so extra good this year, if you’d be alright giving me one extra thing? It’s not a lot. It’s small, I think. But it’s really important._

_Tell you all about it later._

_Keep on watching,_

_Cindy-Lou Who_

She signed it as neatly as she could and shoved it away with the other one inside the drawer of her desk. She’d send them soon, she figured. All together and in bulk. She was sure he’d appreciate that, instead of getting one letter at a time.

Her mom's voice called her back down the stairs, and she dropped her pencil and scuttled down. “Sorry, mom!” she called, tripping on the landing before passing her confused mother. “Just had to write something down, before I forgot.”

* * *

 

**December 14th (7:05 am)**

**(10 Days, 17 Hours, and 57 Minutes Before)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

He’d forgotten.

Grinch wound his arms around himself and stomped up the hill and stared at his feet moving through the snow.

He’d forgotten.

He wasn’t sure how he’d forgotten. And it wasn’t as if he’d _really_ forgotten. This was just… a special kind of forgetfulness.

He knew he was stealing Christmas. That had been in the cards all along. There was a basement lab full of supplies that had no other purpose besides Christmas Stealing Measures, and he was damn well going to use them before the month was out but…

_But he’d forgotten._

Grinch nearly tripped on a patch of ice, broken out of his reveries for only a moment before he was sunk deeper into them once more. His door was only a few steps ahead of them, and the promised warmth of his home was tempting, but he couldn’t find himself able to go through.

Instead, he stopped on the little ledge just outside and stared down at the town.

Past the grocers-

Past the main road-

Past the school-

Past the little hills and rock walls and streets covered in thick layers of ice-

-the little home with the red door sat, still watching him. Its windows shone in the sun, and its red door glared a challenge.

“I forgot,” he told Max, who sat down beside him and looked between His Grinch and the town below, tilting his head. “I forgot, Max.”

 _Forgot what_  the dog seemed to ask, tongue coming up to lick at a freezing nose.  

Grinch looks down at the house some more but had to look away when his chest twisted too tightly.

Ten days.

There were only ten days.

The thought sat with him.

 _Ten days_ , it cackled and jeered.  _Ten days, ten days!_

“Ten days,” he said to Max. To himself. To the little house still staring at him from below. “Ten days and this… and things will be better.”

The wind whipped round and he turned again, peeking over his shoulder. The house’s windows just below blink when the sun flashes behind clouds. It looked like it was winking at him. _Better,_ the house chortled. _Of course. Better._

He looked away again and ducked inside.

He had inventions he needed to finish.

.

.

.

There are only ten more days left, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	8. In Which Cindy-Lou Finds a Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cindy-Lou finds the Grinch on the way to the hardware store. 
> 
> Donna realizes help might be necessary. 
> 
> The Grinch begins to fall (fall, fall, falling deeper...) and coming up for air is getting harder to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little longer than I meant, but such is life.

 

 

 

**December 15th (11:26 am)**

**9 Days, 12 Hours, 34 Minutes**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Grinch doesn’t apologize to Donna or Cindy. Because he doesn’t have to.

And he doesn’t try to dismiss his shaking hands or grinding teeth or twisting fingers, because he doesn’t have to do that, either.

He doesn’t have to do a lot of things, he decides.

He especially doesn’t have to listen to Donna’s voice, circling round in his head. Or his voicemail, when it had appeared later the morning he’d quickly left,

“Mr. Grinch?” It was her voice, worried and soft. “You ran out this morning. Cindy wanted me to call you to make sure you were-”

He hung up and deleted it right away. But it still found ways to stick and prod. Passing lazy laps around his brain.

Her voice. Saying things on voicemails and in dark living rooms surrounded by smudged lights.

( _I trust my daughter_ , it says. _I’m glad that she’s too kind._ )

He closed his eyes and groaned.

Grinch could have easily stayed in bed all day, but the quiet proved more destructive than anything else. He stewed in his character looked up at the ceiling and tries very hard not to vomit. But there’s an electricity in the air when they reach the “ten days until” point that’s impossible to miss, and it only makes the voices of doubt and despair and Donna grow louder.

“Max,” he calls out, when his head is too cluttered and staying in bed wasn’t an option anymore, “I need coffee.” He thought a minute, glaring at the ceiling. “And maybe alcohol, too.”

Max didn’t hear the second part.

Maybe he just (smartly) ignored it.

* * *

He’d slammed back breakfast and took his mug of coffee with him (after dumping in about ten times the normal sugar to level out the tight feeling in his chest that he’d decided to blame on fatigue and nothing else) and he and Max had spent most of the morning in the lab.

It was a good distraction. A way to ignore the way his calendar and Cindy-Lou’s voice ( _glad my daughter is too-kind_ ) made him queasy.

They’d stolen the sleigh the other night from Bricklebaum, and he’d gutted it and put it back together with some modifications that he was _way_ too proud of. “Look at this,” he told Max, pointing to the little compartment that popped out. “You can sit there! We just have to find a reindeer to pull it but _cool_ , right? A throne for a barking prince!”

Max barked and hopped up and over to him.

But when he’d been in the middle of tightening one of the bolts his best wrench snapped in half. He groaned and shook out his hand. “I can’t believe this!” He held the two pieces mournfully.

The good news was that there were still ten days until Christmas Eve. The bad news was there were only _ten more days until Christmas_ and the thought was making his stomach roll.

And he’d have to go down into town.

Again.

“Alright, Max.” He wound his scarf around his neck, snuggling into the smell of lavender and absentmindedly running his hands along the patched holes. He tried to ignore the acid filling up his lungs. “Let’s go.”

Max was a little too overjoyed to be out. After yesterday morning’s quick exit, the dog had been ready for another long period of Grinch shutting them both in, and the blue sky was a wonder to see. Time outside was doing him some good.

Grinch must have realized that, because every so often he would throw snowballs and Max darted after them, trying to catch them and then looking around, mystified, when they disappeared into a burst of white, glittery fluff. Grinch would chuckle, reach down and scratch Max’s head before throwing another.

Grinch only did that when he felt _really_ sorry.

He kept his head down when they got into town, avoiding caroling and ducking between people carrying packages. Whoville was a mass of activity while shops prepped up for sales and Who’s hung garlands and wreaths from between the buildings. Children darted back and forth through the crowds and adults mingled at corners, rubbing their hands together and counting cash in their wallets, looking at lists. “Ech,” he said, wrinkling his nose, nudging out of the way when a few nearly ran into him but swerved away fearfully at the last second. “You see that, Max? _That’s_ all this stupid holiday is. Can you even imagine what it’ll be like to steal it from-”

But Max was distracted, looking through the crowd with his nose up, apparently having seen or heard something familiar enough to drag his attention away. And when he found it, his ears perked and his tail swung back and forth, nailing Grinch solidly in the shin before he was barrelling away through the throngs. “Max!” Grinch walked faster, bumping into people, surprising himself when he gruffly apologized. “Max, get back here!”

But Max didn’t stop. Not until he’d found what he was looking for. And find that he did.

In the form of Cindy-Lou and her mother.

Grinch felt like a bucket of ice had been shoved into his stomach.

“Max!” Cindy jumped forward, petting the dog and shrieking when he licked her face. “Good boy!”

“Mr. Grinch!” Donna had her purse slung on her shoulder and when she bent down to pet Max it slid down. She had a bag in the other hand filled with shiny stuff. It reflected and sparkled in the blinding afternoon light. “It’s so good to see you in town!” She smiled kindly. “We were worried when you left. Figured you must have had something important to do.”

“Super important,” Cindy-Lou said, looking up from petting Max. “Right?”

If Super-Important meant on the brink of a crisis, then sure. “Yeah,” he said through his teeth. “Totally important.”

Cindy-Lou looked impressed.

Donna looked like she knew he was lying. He cast his eyes down fast to Max, who was burrowed in Cindy-Lou’s arms, and glared. _Traitor_.

“So,” Donna said, dragging his gaze back up to hers. “What’s the plan for you today? Another grocery run?”

He pat his bag awkwardly. “Broken wrench.” He hesitated before saying, “thanks for letting me stay with you the other night.”

“Oh pshh. No problem at all!” She hefted her purse higher where it had slipped. “You should come back again soon sometime for dinner. We’d be glad to have you!”

Max looked up at him expectantly as if to say _now it’s your turn to say something back!_ Social graces and rules weren’t exactly his strongest asset, and it was a mystery why his dog knew more than he did.  “Oh- _oh_ ! Yes. Sure. Of course.” Max wagged his tail. _Good job!_

Her next smile was a less accusatory one but her eyes never lost their quick gaze. She hiked her purse a little higher on her shoulder and gave the one filled with shiny things a shake. “Well, we’re on our way there anyway! Come with us!”

“Uh-”

Excuses flooded his head, but were snuffed when Cindy-Lou grabbed his hand and began to drag him their way. “Yeah! We need to get some extra bulbs for the lights! Our broke because they were really, really, _really_ old, so mom said that we needed to get more. I said we needed colorful ones, right mom?”

“Right.”

Cindy-Lou goes on about lights and he drifts away, his thoughts everywhere. He was brought back when she gave his hand an extra tug. “You’re okay if we stop, right?”

“Wha?”

“If we stop,” she said again. “We need to pick up my brothers!”

It wasn’t much of his choice. He didn’t say yes or no before he was corralled another direction and Donna was going inside a bright little building. The windows were decorated in cut-out snowflakes and snowmen and paper lanterns. He waited outside with Cindy-Lou until Donna came back out with a stroller and two more children strapped in.

The twins were tiny, but their eyes were almost too-big, and those too-big eyes found him right away.

They screeched through wide, toothless smiles.

“You haven’t met them yet,” said Cindy-Lou, patting both their heads and skillfully ignoring the way Grinch flinched away from the sharp noises, grimacing at the sight of drool. “These are my brothers!”

“They like you,” said Donna, hanging her purse on the stroller handle.

Grinch didn’t think they were old enough to even have the _concept_ of “like and dislike” figured out, and he almost said as much until Max pranced over and licked both their sticky hands. Grinch almost vomited. The two boys shrieked.

Apparently, their affection was _loud_.

Grinch didn’t do _loud_.

The two other Who’s didn’t care what he did or didn’t do, because they smiled and began walking again. “This is Buster,” said Donna, pointing down to the left stroller chair. “And this,” she said, pointing to the right, “is Bean!”

“Mmm,” hummed Grinch, glaring at the babies.

“Aren’t you gonna say hi?” asked Cindy-Lou.

He scowled at them, stomping through slush. The stroller kicked up little bits of ice and hit him in the leg. “I don’t think they’d understand it if I did.”

“They would,” she said. “They’re _smart_.”

“They’re children,” he snipped back. “Children are not _smart_.”

She glared right back at him. “ _I’m_ a child,” she said. “And I’m _very smart_.”

He snorted and tossed his scarf over his shoulder. “You’re either very big-headed or the exception.”

Cindy stared, and then reached down, gathered up a handful of slush, and threw it at his back. He jumped forward with a yelp. “Hey!”

“You’re _dumb_.”

He gaped at her, then at Donna, who was rolling along casually like nothing had happened. “Control your child,” he snapped at her, jabbing a finger towards Cindy-Lou, who was doing her best impression of Innocent Bystander.

Donna just blinked. “You called my child dumb.”

“I did _not_. I said all children-”

“You’re on your own, Mr. Grinch.”

He was left to the abuses of a small child and a second handful of slush. And by the time they reached the store, most of his anxieties from the past morning were forgotten. He was a little wet, a little grumpy, and a little bit happier under the cautious return of normalcy.

 _Secretly_ a little bit happier.

(Though his smile did slip through once or twice).

* * *

 

Sam Eidelwick had known the Grinch from when he’d first come to his store fifteen or so years ago and knocked over an entire shelf. He hadn’t apologized.

And that pretty much solidified his character from then on.

For years he snapped and snarled and bought things with little more than a word or two. Sometimes he paid completely in quarters.

That was always a fun day.

But there was something sad about him. Tragic and lonely that struck Sam Eidelwick to the core. Sam was an old man. His wife had died twenty years ago, and he understood what it was to be alone.

But he also had his friends. His relatives. The people he worked with. The different people across the street who owned bakeries and paper stores and served coffee and tea. He had an army’s worth of attention and love.

Grinch, he was sure, had none.

And so against the better judgment of his neighbors and fellow shopkeepers, he didn’t ban Grinch from the store.

“That boy gives me half my business,” he always said. Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Even when he paid in pennies, the Grinch of Mount Crumpit never failed to pay.

Sam Eidelwick also knew Donna-Lou Who and her daughter and two sons, who also knew aloneness like he did, and who somehow stayed the nicest people in the entire town despite it. Donna had gone out of her way a few times to make personal calls to his shop when he’d sliced his hand on a screwdriver or a sharp bit of wood.

Donna and her family- they were some of the best.

And so Sam Eidelwick, who was having a very normal and nice day, didn’t know what to make of it when he heard the bell above the shop door jingle and saw her walk in with her daughter, sons, and behind them-

“Sam!” Donna grinned.

Cindy-Lou peeked over the counter. “We need lights!” she chirped.

“We do,” said Donna. And then she grabbed the shoulder of the man behind her. “And Grinch needs a new wrench!”

Sam Eidelwick blinked, blinked again, and stared long and hard as his most troublesome, curmudgeonly, and _isolated_ customer walk in with a group.

With a group consisting of a mother, a child, and two babies.

The normal day began to go downhill after that.

* * *

 

He stopped staring eventually when Donna began asking questions about bulb size and he shook his head and hurried out from behind the counter to help. From the corner of his eye he watched the Grinch peruse the wrenches.

“Do you think something smaller would work?” asked Donna. She was holding a string of white lights.

“I want them different colors,” said Cindy-Lou from beside her mother.

Buster and Bean squealed and grabbed at them, and Donna yanked the strand out of reach.

“Um?” Sam watched the Grinch weigh a wrench in his open palm. He must have followed them in? Yes. That must have been it. “I think a larger size would be a little easier.”

She sighed. “I thought so. But… ugh. They’re so _cumbersome_ , you know?”

“And,” Cindy-Lou repeated vehemently, “in _colors_.”

Buster and Bean gurgled their agreement.

Sam nodded, peeking over to watch the Grinch snap his fingers at Max. Maybe this was a nefarious plot? Maybe Donna was putting up with this? Bumped into him outside and was trying to be polite? That seemed like something Donna would do!

“Sam?”

“What? Oh!” He nodded, whipping his gaze back to the bulbs. “We can go a little smaller if you want,” he said, forcing his thoughts back to business. “But not much.”

“Any amount would be good, Sam,” she said.

“Let’s see what I have in back.”  

By the time he’s giving her options he’s concluded that Donna was just being nice. Because watching the customer who paid only in pennies and usually left at least _one_ thing broken, there could be no other explanation.

But even that soon fell apart when Cindy-Lou (finally bored of lights and annoyed that the two adults were ignoring her colorful fascination and done trying to keep her brothers occupied) trailed over towards the Grinch who was still busy by the wrenches, but who’s wandering eyes were looking off towards the screwdrivers.

Sam was getting up to call out and give her a menial job helping her mother. The Grinch was not the person that you went over to all willy-nilly, and she was sure to get a fierce snap or two her way if she crossed his orbit.

“Mr Grinch!” It was too late for her, though, when she tugged on his scarf and showed him the string of plain white lights in her hands. He looked down, narrowing his eyes. “You could find a way to make these different colors, right?”

Sam watched. Donna beside him didn’t even bother looking up, pursing her lips and comparing two different strands.

Grinch stared at them.

He reached down and picked up the bundle and flicked one of the lights.

“I could paint them,” he said finally, eying the strand. “I have some glass paint at home.”

"And you could make them flash?"

"If we found the right way to program them, yeah." 

“I could help!”

There was a smile. Sam choked on surprise when he saw it. A small, careful smile. “Sure,” he said. “Maybe.”

There wasn’t much time to ruminate on what had happened. Not for Sam, who was suitably shocked, or for the Grinch, who was also equally shocked from the way his face quickly tightened and he turned fast back towards what he was doing.

But Cindy stayed by his side, and he didn’t complain about that. And Donna didn’t worry about it. She looked up once to check where Cindy-Lou was but once she saw who her daughter was with, that calmed her frazzling nerves, and she returned to looking for lights and other Christmas-time needs.

And Grinch never broke anything.

Truly, a Christmas miracle.

* * *

They’re checking out when Grinch finally speaks to Sam for the first time.

“I found a half inch,” he said, pushing a wrench across the counter. “And a quarter. Any more coming in?”

“Sure are,” said Sam, ringing them up. “Been a little short since the snows kept trucks coming through town. The storm two nights ago didn’t help.”

Cindy was still at Grinch’s side, looking at the tools. “Are those for inventing?” Grinch hummed and nodded. “Cool! Mom! That’s what I need for a present!”

“You want a wrench?” Donna had finally found some lights (plain, white, much to Cindy-Lou’s dismay) and she looked down at her grinning daughter with raised eyebrows. “Why?”

“So I can invent!”

“Sure, hon.”

“Cool! Mr. Grinch! You gotta tell her what kind! Mom’s not good at wrenches.”

“Uh huh,” he said, trying to seem disinterested, which failed just seconds later when he finished it with, “We’ll start you on something smaller. I can show you some samples, Donna.”

“Totally,” Cindy nodded up at her mother. “Smaller. You got that, mom?”

“I got it, Cindy-Lou.”

Donna paid first while Cindy-Lou chatted on about wrenches and inventions. Buster and Bean slowly dozed off in their stroller. Sam began to relax behind his counter.

All was good.

And then, just as quickly as it all turned normal, Cindy-Lou brought up the tree.

“These lights aren’t for that,” she told Grinch. “They’re too big. They’re for the outside of the house! But the other lights we have? _Those_ are for the tree!” She brighted. “That’s right! You didn’t see our tree!”

Sam Eidelwick, putting lights into a large paper bag with sturdy handles, was moving to get a second bag for the wrench when he saw Grinch go pale.

He didn’t even think it was possible for someone with green fur to do that. But amazingly the Grinch had found a way. Throat bobbing, eyes wide, skin paling, he looked down at the little girl who chatted away in front of him.

“We’re gonna decorate it later,” Cindy-Lou was saying. “Right mom?”

“Right,” said Donna.

Max, who was sniffing around the floor and sneezing on sawdust, froze. He turned. Noticing something felt off.

“It’s gonna be pretty neat! I got to pick out a lot of the new ornaments, since a few of them are so old. You need to see them!”

“Uh,” choked Grinch, who’s hands were creeping from his scarf.

Sam Eidelwick took a chance and asked, “Sir? You okay?”

But his Worst Customer did not look okay.

* * *

Grinch had been having an alright day until that moment.

Donna had apparently forgiven him for running out, Cindy-Lou didn’t look upset, either. Her brothers were alright for toddlers (and hadn’t tried to touch him yet, which was definitely the best case scenario), and it was a gorgeous, snowstorm free morning.

Things were…

Well… if they weren’t _up_ , then they were at least heading in an upward direction.

And then Cindy-Lou had decided to bring up trees.

He knew she didn’t mean to. And she couldn’t have known. Because neither could he. It was so sudden, like a bolt of frozen lightning shot through his head and wound around his ankles and wrists.

“You have to see our tree,” she was saying. “It’s the best thing ever! Really!”

He remembered trees.

He remembered trees in dark places.

He remembered trees in forests that eased him off trails into wide, lost places.

He remembered trees shining outside windows he wasn’t invited past.

Cindy-Lou grabbed his scarf and tugged. “You can help us,” she said, grinning. “Mom! Wouldn’t that be great!”

Grinch swallowed. He tried to say something.

The man across the counter was reaching out, asking him something. _Are you okay?_ _Sir?_

His hands shook. He couldn’t stop the sweeping static in his head. Couldn’t _control_ it. And there were people watching. Donna. Babies. Cindy-Lou. This Man Behind the Counter. People watching him crack. People watching him snap.

People watching him-

_Twist_

_Plunge_

_Fall_

\- Break

“You can come over now, if you wanted to.” Cindy reached out for Max again and stroked his back, but the dog was stiff, occupied with leaning against Grinch’s ankles. “We’re decorating our tree today when we get home, so you can help! Buster and Bean are lousy at it, but I'm pretty good! And you can see all the ornaments I made when I was little-”

The world could have given him the courtesy of letting him know when it was going to collapse in around him.

Cindy-Lou noticed it before her mother did.

Max leaned against the Grinch’s leg with a little whine. _Breathe. You have to breathe._

But it was too late for the proverbial raft to save him, and his fingers began to twist against one another before he’d had a chance to stop them.

The Drowning had returned.

So sneakily at first, it wound around the Grinch and forced his arms up until they clutched at his scarf. He took a step back, and swallowed. Tried to breathe.

The shop felt too small.

“Sir?” The Man behind the Counter reached out farther.

Grinch knew him. The Man Behind the Counter. Because he’d paid in all pennies and he’d broken a few things, and The Man Behind the Counter _must have_ hated him for all of that, and now he’d see him like this, and he’d laugh, and laugh, and _laugh_.

The little store felt too small.

He made a sound in his throat. Cindy-Lou looked up at him. Donna turned. The twins in the stroller blinked and gurgled.

They’d all laugh at him. All of them.

With a choking gasp, he stepped outside.

Max followed him out, yipping and whining, watching him lean over and try to catch his breath. But even the air outside was too constricting, the Main Square was crowded. The space that had been a nuisance turned into a wasteland of too bright and too loud and too small. The noise swelled over him and pushed, pushed, pushed him down.

He didn't think they'd follow him out. But-

“Mr. Grinch?” Cindy-Lou’s voice was muffled under the layers of panic, and when her hand touched his, it burned. He pulled away too quickly, and hated himself when her face crumbled. She thought it was her fault. That this -that him being him- was her fault. “Are you okay?”

He wasn’t okay.

 _He wasn’t okay_.

Behind layers of bone the squeeze and the thump and the vicious bite of muscle returned. He caught a breath, clawing at his chest, gagging against pain. 

Donna moved forward. "Mr. Grinch!" 

“I-” he took a step back, then another. “I have to go.”

“Mr. Grinch, wait-!”

He turned on his heel and moved quick as he could through the crowd. Everything was colder, bigger, brighter, louder. His heart was breaking inside him and he gasped for air, moving through the streets, bumping into people and kicking up snow the faster he went.

He didn’t even realize he’d gotten home until he was back at his front door, sans wrench, sitting on the floor at the bottom of the front steps and Max was curling up in his lap, nipping his fingers and settling his head onto his stomach, breathing steadily.

Grinch stroked Max’s back, following his breathing until it matched the dogs. And when it did, he blinked and inhaled deep, and let out something that he hoped was a laugh.

(It wasn’t a laugh.)

“Thanks buddy…”  He squeezed his eyes shut and dug his fingers deep against Max’s fur. He grounded himself there, in that moment. That awful moment.  “Sorry- sorry about that.”

Max just nipped his fingers again. _Breathe._

And the Grinch did.

* * *

 

**December 15th (2:15 pm)**

**9 Days, 21 Hours, 45 Minutes**

**.**

**.**

**.**

He gets a call that night from Cindy-Lou while he’s making a cup of tea.

Actually, he got a call from Donna. But she handed over the phone to Cindy after checking on him. “Mr. Grinch?” Donna had a new Voice on.

He wondered if she used the Voice at work as a nurse.

She’d be a good nurse, he thought, if she used that Voice.

“Mrs. Who,” he said.

“Donna.”

“Mrs. Who,” he said again, “Um-” he wasn’t sure what to say. An apology seemed apt, so he tried that.

“No,” she said back. “Don’t apologize. You don’t need to.” She pauses, and he can hear her thinking. “Cindy wanted to say hello. I talked to her before about…” her words fluttered away. “She wanted to say hello. Would you be alright with that?”

 _No_ , he wants to choke. Because his hands were still shaking, pushing the tea around the rim of the mug like little eddies. But instead; “yeah, sure.”

There was the sound of shifting. And then, “Mr. Grinch?” She was sniffling.

“Hey…” He held the tea-bag by the string, stirring it around. Something about the girl's voice was tight, and he realized after a moment that she was crying. His chest tightened and his mouth turned down. “Hey… you okay?”

“Mr. Grinch… I didn’t mean to make you upset today…” She sniffled again. “I’m really, really sorry. I’m so, so, so super sorry.” There was a choking noise when she sobbed. “It was an accident! I forgot you didn’t like Christmas and I just… I wanted you to come over again. _Please_ don’t be mad! I _want_ you to come over again. It was so much fun and I want to be your assistant and I don’t want you to go away. _Please_?”  

He pushed his mug to the side, leaning his elbows against the counter. “Hey- it’s okay! Really!”

“Not it’s _not_ . I made you _sad_.”

“No. You didn’t make me sad. It was…”

 _It was me_ , he wanted to say. _Because I’m miserable all the time and you can’t even imagine how much I despise that. How much sense it doesn’t make. How much I wish it would change. How much that isn’t your fault_. “It’s not you, I promise. I just… had a bad day.”

She sniffed and snorted, and there was a rustling noise when she wiped her eyes. “Okay…”

And then, to his incredible amazement, the Grinch said, too quickly, “And I'll come over again.”

He doesn’t realize he’s said it until after. And he’s even more amazed to realize that he means each word. His kitchen felt too big ever since he’d spent the short days at her house, around their table. Everything was too large and quiet, and he longed for banged elbows and mismatched chairs.  

“ … you would?” There’s tentative happiness there. He’d like to imagine a smile.

“Course. Where am I without my assistant, right?”

Yes. Definitely a smile. Even across the line, he could hear it. “ _Really_?”

“Really.”

She sniffed and laughed. “Okay. Then… then would you come over again this week? We won’t do the tree or anything. Promise. We’ll put the tree away! Where you can’t see it and-”

“Actually…”  he stares at his hand, flexing the fingers. “I’d um, uh, like to-to-to… to see your tree.”

Max’s head jerks up and he stared at his master. Grinch swallowed back something like fire in his throat and turned away from the dog. Cindy-Lou yammered on. “Okay! Mom and I will leave out some decorations! Just in case!” She said something off the phone. “Mom wants to talk to you again!”

The shifts of the phone are soft, and Donna’s voice is softer. “Mr. Grinch, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Absolutely.”

She hummed. “You know that I work in the hospital down the way, right? And I don’t want to push, I _won’t_ push, but we have a great mindfulness program. And if you need it- if you think you’ll need it _one day_ …”

_Wait._

_Wait-wait-wait_ -

His stomach filled with cement and his hand tightened around his mug, palm burning.

Was she suggesting-

Was she _really_ suggesting-?

“Mrs. Who, I’m fine,” he said, sounding a little sharper than he meant to. Or not sharp enough. His mouth pulled down, eyes narrowing.

“All I’m saying,” she said, “is that if you think one day you’d need a help-”

 _No. No, no, no_ -

“Mrs. Who-”

“If you need it,” she said, carefully, cautiously. “I’d be more than happy to recommend a therapist.”

The magic word. There it was.

He put his mug onto the counter, letting his fist rest beside it. “I don’t- I don’t _need_ anything, Mrs. Who. Not a- a- I’m not _crazy_!”

“I never said-”

“Everyone thinks I’m _crazy_ .” His fist hit the counter once. Twice. Three times. His knuckles stung and burned. “Every single person in this stupid town thinks I’m… I’m _crazy_.”

Reasonably, he’d wanted them to. It kept him on his own. Kept him safe. _Alone_.

But to hear Mrs. Who -Donna- saying something like that. He didn’t know why but it… it hit.

Hard.

“Just because you need a therapist-”

“I don’t,” he snapped. “I don’t _need_ a therapist. I don’t need anything. _Anyone_.”

Silence.

Max bit his heel to remind him to breathe again, and when he did, he tried as hard as he could to push past the static running up and down his spine. His tongue felt tied.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Okay. But if you think you need something-”

“I won’t.”

“If,” she pressed, the Voice soft and sure. “You know my number. _Our_ number.”

He swallowed. “If,” he said. And then, because it felt right, “and I’ll see you later.”

“For the tree?”

“For the tree.”

She was still using the Voice, but there was a smile behind it now, too, when she said, “we’ll look forward to it.”

* * *

Max gave him a look when he got off the phone and turned back around to drink his tea. He settled his little body against His Grinch’s legs.

“I’m fine,” said the Grinch.

His dog puffed, pawing at his legs.

“I’m not crazy,” he said. “They all think there’s something wrong with me. They want to lock me up but- I’m not.”

Max puffed again; louder and harsher. Grinch could almost hear him say, _That’s not what she said_.

Grinch “I’m fine,” he insisted, pushing against the static that had moved from his spine up to his brain, ignoring how his voice had gone tight again. “I don’t need help.”

 _Sure_ , his dogs face said. But as done as his dog might have been with him then (and Grinch was waiting for the day that his dog would turn on him, too- exhausted from his constant crumbling) he stayed with him for the rest of the afternoon, and helped him come up for air.

* * *

 

**December 16th (7:33 am)**

**8 Days, 16 Hours, 27 Minutes**

**.**

**.**

**.**

It was after he’d slept and calmed down and regained his senses that he realized, the next morning, his wrench was still broken and he couldn’t do any work in his lab without it.

Maybe if he was less stingy with his money and actually refurbished his tools every so often…

Curse his spending habits.

But without that, he was forced to stew in the anxieties of taking a day off when there was only so much time left. So, sitting by his fire, ten mugs of tea already downed since dawn, Grinch sat with mug number eleven and a pile of blueprints he was editing when he got a text. He put down his tea and pushed away his blueprints and picked up his phone, watching the messages roll in.

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** It’s me, Cindy!

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** I’m texting you before school!

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** My mom told me to text you to say that I can’t wait for you to help with our tree.

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** You’re still coming, right?

He held the phone and fiddled with it, thinking.

Max, from where he was lying in front of the fire, lifted his head and tilted it.

 **Grinch:** Yes. Just tell me when.

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** Not tomorrow. Day after!

He’d have to push back some of his planning. But he could make it. He could crunch it, if he tried and had enough coffee…

 **Grinch:** Day after. Sure.

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** And my mom wants to ask if you’re alright.

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** Are you alright?

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** It’s okay if you don’t want to answer.

He didn’t. His mind was still sore, and the conversation brought back the twisting and writhing and sinking, and he closed his eyes tight and breathed deep.

_Crazy._

_They think I’m crazy._

And then, the worst thought; _Cindy and Donna- they’ll both think… both think…_

Another buzz brought him back before he went too far.

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** And by the way

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** We got you your wrench

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** We’ll give it to you when we see you!

 **Cindy and Donna Who:** Have a good day, Mr. Grinch!

He didn’t answer again. And when he put down the phone, picking his tea back up and cradling it in his hands, his chest tightened. He rubbed at the skin with a groan. 

Despite even that, he was smiling. 

And didn't know he was smiling until he looked down. 

Max was watching him, eyes huge.

The smile whipped away. “I’m going to go down and help them.” He sipped his tea, and it burned his tongue, washing down the foulness of what he was about to say. “With their… tree.”

Max blinked.

“What! It’ll be… good for me. To know what sort of trees I’ll be stuffing up their chimneys.” He did an upward sloping motion with his hand. “It’s _recon_.”

Max’s eyes stayed huge.

“It is!”

Max shook his head and rolled his eyes and went to go find his favorite squeaky toy.

“Fine,” said Grinch to the Dog’s tail. “But you’ll see. After I steal Christmas, _you’ll see_!”

But Max was already gone, and so Grinch sniffed and went back to planning, mind full of tea, and static, and therapists, and trees.

He thinks about water, too. The stuttering around his lungs. The squeeze at his heart. 

And how he's falling farther

               

                   farther

 

                                                farther

                                

                                                                                 farther

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

below. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


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